Pliny says No No No to the grapes motto. He thinks I should try 'I am bold when it comes to killing small spiders'.
He says he knows it to be true. He has seen me do it with his own eyes. He says that if it would not spoil the motto, which it would, I ought to make it medium sized spiders.
I ask him why. He says that he has seen me let small spiders live, when they are in the bath or on a page of a book I'm reading. I was unaware that he observed me so closely. He is right though. Small spiders are money spiders and to kill them is bad luck.
I want him to help me with the Latin. He says he won't but he will give me some helpful advice. Don't translate it literally, try for brevity and succinctness.
Let's try the literal. Sum audax dum venit frangere parvas araneas. Yes that does sound rather clunky.
How about 'Boldly I crush small spiders'. Fortiter frango araneas parvas.
That's still too long, says Pliny. You can make it shorter. Use the diminutive.
O clever!
Fortiter frango araneulas! Boldly I crush wee spids.
But Pliny's right. I don't. Just mid-size ones. There's a fundamental problem with this motto.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Omnino Uvis
Today I'm trying out the motto, 'I am made entirely of grapes'.
Pliny thinks this is a silly motto, as I am not made entirely of grapes. But as I said to him, a motto can be something to aspire to.
I like grapes. All kinds of grapes, red grapes, purple grapes, green grapes, yellow grapes. I like the sweet yellow sultana grapes with thin skins that drop off their stalks too easily and are now out of fashion but they were good grapes and in February used to be ridiculously cheap. These are the ones I first thought I might be entirely made of, since I ate them till I burst.
I like sultanas too, the dried ones. I eat some every day with breakfast, and snack on them later in the day. The best ones are plump and soft and wrinkly, and I roll them between my fingers before I pop them in my mouth and burst them open with my teeth.
Once I heard someone saying to her friend, 'I can't stand sultanas, they're soft and jellyish inside, they're so disgusting', and I thought, this person is my opposite number. But sometimes I don't like them either. When they're small and dry and candied I don't like them, but I eat them just the same.
I like to drink red wine and white wine too. See, grapes again! If I get my DNA tested one day it will show I am a true Mince Pie whose motto ought to be: Omnino uvis.
There being no other item of a vegetable nature with which I ply myself so diligently.
Pliny thinks this is a silly motto, as I am not made entirely of grapes. But as I said to him, a motto can be something to aspire to.
I like grapes. All kinds of grapes, red grapes, purple grapes, green grapes, yellow grapes. I like the sweet yellow sultana grapes with thin skins that drop off their stalks too easily and are now out of fashion but they were good grapes and in February used to be ridiculously cheap. These are the ones I first thought I might be entirely made of, since I ate them till I burst.
I like sultanas too, the dried ones. I eat some every day with breakfast, and snack on them later in the day. The best ones are plump and soft and wrinkly, and I roll them between my fingers before I pop them in my mouth and burst them open with my teeth.
Once I heard someone saying to her friend, 'I can't stand sultanas, they're soft and jellyish inside, they're so disgusting', and I thought, this person is my opposite number. But sometimes I don't like them either. When they're small and dry and candied I don't like them, but I eat them just the same.
I like to drink red wine and white wine too. See, grapes again! If I get my DNA tested one day it will show I am a true Mince Pie whose motto ought to be: Omnino uvis.
There being no other item of a vegetable nature with which I ply myself so diligently.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Amo marem
I'm trying out the motto, I love the sea, or Amo marem.
I love the sea. I must be near it. If I'm not within half an hour of it, I feel trapped. Travelling inland, I am uneasy, and long to escape to the coast.
That is not strictly true.
This is true: When I am inland in a foreign country, I feel uneasy and long to escape to the coast.
I used to think this was because I am descended from a tribe of coastal dwellers. But perhaps I just want to go home.
My grandmother loved the sea. She liked to live close to it. She would stride along the shore, taking in deep breaths of salty air, and say "Smell the ozone!" As a child I thought that ozone smelt like seaweed.
My mother loves the sea. She lives near it. She deviates to look at it, gazing through the windscreen of her car on a windy day. In fine weather she sits on a wooden seat and dreams of sailing.
I do not dream of sailing. I do not smell the ozone as a conscious act. I am the sea.
The light gleaming dimly like eels through the shallows on a summer's evening gleams through me. I am as thick as turkish delight. I lick the apple peel seaweed and the threaded brown polyps. I fizz around a discarded corn cob, and shift a shell. I hold dolphins and lift green inflatable dinghies with boys inside. My waves run on golden rails. I outstay the orange sun, and the sand which is violet and grey. I fluoresce momentarily. Electric blue, then black.
I love the sea. I must be near it. If I'm not within half an hour of it, I feel trapped. Travelling inland, I am uneasy, and long to escape to the coast.
That is not strictly true.
This is true: When I am inland in a foreign country, I feel uneasy and long to escape to the coast.
I used to think this was because I am descended from a tribe of coastal dwellers. But perhaps I just want to go home.
My grandmother loved the sea. She liked to live close to it. She would stride along the shore, taking in deep breaths of salty air, and say "Smell the ozone!" As a child I thought that ozone smelt like seaweed.
My mother loves the sea. She lives near it. She deviates to look at it, gazing through the windscreen of her car on a windy day. In fine weather she sits on a wooden seat and dreams of sailing.
I do not dream of sailing. I do not smell the ozone as a conscious act. I am the sea.
The light gleaming dimly like eels through the shallows on a summer's evening gleams through me. I am as thick as turkish delight. I lick the apple peel seaweed and the threaded brown polyps. I fizz around a discarded corn cob, and shift a shell. I hold dolphins and lift green inflatable dinghies with boys inside. My waves run on golden rails. I outstay the orange sun, and the sand which is violet and grey. I fluoresce momentarily. Electric blue, then black.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Hortulana negans
Pliny, I said, later on.
What?
I don't like that motto. It's too ambiguous.
Nihil summatim?
Yes, it could be taken to mean that I can be summed up by a great big nothing.
It doesn't say anything about the size of it.
I know, but you know what I mean. I want something a bit more personal.
How about The negative gardener? Hortulana negans. That's personal.
It's too negative. Something about me. I love the sea. I am made entirely of grapes. I am bold when it comes to killing small spiders. What do you think?
I think I'll leave it up to you.
What?
I don't like that motto. It's too ambiguous.
Nihil summatim?
Yes, it could be taken to mean that I can be summed up by a great big nothing.
It doesn't say anything about the size of it.
I know, but you know what I mean. I want something a bit more personal.
How about The negative gardener? Hortulana negans. That's personal.
It's too negative. Something about me. I love the sea. I am made entirely of grapes. I am bold when it comes to killing small spiders. What do you think?
I think I'll leave it up to you.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Motto
Pliny the Elder looks surprised. Whose is this new Latin Dictionary and Grammar? he wonders aloud.
It's mine, I say.
What do you need that for? he asks. You can find out anything you need to know from me.
You are not always here, I reply. For example you went away at Christmas. Which was when I was asked to come up with the Latin for a motto.
What was the motto? asks Pliny.
'I stand aside', I reply. Or in Latin, 'Separatim maneo'.
Very nice, says Pliny, approvingly. Very nice indeed. But not your motto, obviously.
No, not my motto. I would like a motto, if only I could think of one.
I thought your motto was 'No day without a line', says Pliny.
That's more of a reminder, I say. No, I want something that sums me up, in Latin.
First, says Pliny, you must find something that sums you up in English.
I know, I say, but nothing does.
How about 'Nothing sums her up'?
What would that be in Latin?
'Nihil summatim', perhaps.
That seems a little terse. And where am I, in that?
I left you out, for brevity.
It's mine, I say.
What do you need that for? he asks. You can find out anything you need to know from me.
You are not always here, I reply. For example you went away at Christmas. Which was when I was asked to come up with the Latin for a motto.
What was the motto? asks Pliny.
'I stand aside', I reply. Or in Latin, 'Separatim maneo'.
Very nice, says Pliny, approvingly. Very nice indeed. But not your motto, obviously.
No, not my motto. I would like a motto, if only I could think of one.
I thought your motto was 'No day without a line', says Pliny.
That's more of a reminder, I say. No, I want something that sums me up, in Latin.
First, says Pliny, you must find something that sums you up in English.
I know, I say, but nothing does.
How about 'Nothing sums her up'?
What would that be in Latin?
'Nihil summatim', perhaps.
That seems a little terse. And where am I, in that?
I left you out, for brevity.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Potatoes and Chocolate
How was your Christmas? asked Pliny the Elder.
Alright. But where were you? said I, in reply.
I took myself off, said Pliny. I do not hold with Christmas. I generally find people eat too much food at Christmas, chocolates and potatoes in particular.
Oh Pliny, I said, as to chocolates you are quite right, but there were precious few potatoes eaten at our house and my mother's on Christmas Day this year.
You surprise me, said Pliny. How did this come about? Were you not planning to cook a great turkey for Christmas Lunch?
I was, and I did cook a great turkey, and yet there were no potatoes roasted or baked with the turkey, because my daughter and I served up two salads instead, and the salads were Watermelon, Feta and Black Olive, and New Orleans Coleslaw. No potatoes.
Perhaps I should have stayed at home after all, said Pliny. That would have suited my No Carbs diet very well. However I recall seeing your Christmas Day To Do list and it clearly said 'Make Potato Salad in the afternoon'.
Pliny! Since when are you on a No Carbs diet?
Since next week said Pliny. It's my New Years Resolution. But what about that Potato Salad?
Oh, Pliny, I did make one. It was for the Christmas Dinner, at my mother's. But I forgot to take it with me. Everybody laughed.
Pliny laughed. Suddenly he stopped laughing.
Does this mean...? he asked.
Yes, it's still here in the fridge and we're having it for lunch today, and probably tomorrow. And Pliny.....?
Yes?
Help yourself to the chocolates.
Alright. But where were you? said I, in reply.
I took myself off, said Pliny. I do not hold with Christmas. I generally find people eat too much food at Christmas, chocolates and potatoes in particular.
Oh Pliny, I said, as to chocolates you are quite right, but there were precious few potatoes eaten at our house and my mother's on Christmas Day this year.
You surprise me, said Pliny. How did this come about? Were you not planning to cook a great turkey for Christmas Lunch?
I was, and I did cook a great turkey, and yet there were no potatoes roasted or baked with the turkey, because my daughter and I served up two salads instead, and the salads were Watermelon, Feta and Black Olive, and New Orleans Coleslaw. No potatoes.
Perhaps I should have stayed at home after all, said Pliny. That would have suited my No Carbs diet very well. However I recall seeing your Christmas Day To Do list and it clearly said 'Make Potato Salad in the afternoon'.
Pliny! Since when are you on a No Carbs diet?
Since next week said Pliny. It's my New Years Resolution. But what about that Potato Salad?
Oh, Pliny, I did make one. It was for the Christmas Dinner, at my mother's. But I forgot to take it with me. Everybody laughed.
Pliny laughed. Suddenly he stopped laughing.
Does this mean...? he asked.
Yes, it's still here in the fridge and we're having it for lunch today, and probably tomorrow. And Pliny.....?
Yes?
Help yourself to the chocolates.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The Minus Oneth Day of Christmas
Me, musing: Should I call this the Minus Oneth Day of Christmas or the Minus First Day of Christmas? Minus First doesn't sound right. Minus Oneth doesn't look right.
Me, replying to myself: Why don't you call it what it is? The Day Before Christmas?
Me, musing further: The Day Before Christmas? That doesn't fit to the sequence of Minus Eighth, Minus Seventh etc. And shouldn't it be Christmas Eve?
Me, replying to myself: That wouldn't fit the sequence either.
Me, musing: True.
( a long pause, represented by dots ) ....................
Me again, musing: I'll go with Oneth. After all, there's a Zeroth Law of Thermodynamics.
Me: So there is. And Christmas Day is the Zeroth Day of Christmas.
Me, disagreeing with myself: I think you'll find that it's the First Day of Christmas.
Me, definitively: It will be the Zeroth Day Of Christmas, for the sake of my own Equilibrium.
Me, replying to myself: Why don't you call it what it is? The Day Before Christmas?
Me, musing further: The Day Before Christmas? That doesn't fit to the sequence of Minus Eighth, Minus Seventh etc. And shouldn't it be Christmas Eve?
Me, replying to myself: That wouldn't fit the sequence either.
Me, musing: True.
( a long pause, represented by dots ) ....................
Me again, musing: I'll go with Oneth. After all, there's a Zeroth Law of Thermodynamics.
Me: So there is. And Christmas Day is the Zeroth Day of Christmas.
Me, disagreeing with myself: I think you'll find that it's the First Day of Christmas.
Me, definitively: It will be the Zeroth Day Of Christmas, for the sake of my own Equilibrium.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The Minus Second Day of Christmas.
Now here's a coincidence for you, said Pliny the Elder, who seemed in a talkative mood.
Go on, I said warily.
Imagine, he said, that you are walking to Norwood to post some letters and do some Christmas shopping. You're just turning in to Webbe Street between the carpark and the Plaza. All at once you hear the strains of Christmas music drifting across from the Parade. There are buildings in the way so you hear only one choral phrase, and that phrase is ' Fall on your knees '.
Oh, I know that one! I said. Oh heeear the angel voiiices, oh niiight divine, ohhhh night, oh night deeevine!
Really, said Pliny. Is that how it goes? Well, I didn't hear any of that, it was cut off. But I was thinking, when I heard it, would it not be an amusing coincidence if one were to fall upon one's knees?
What do you mean, Pliny? In adoration?
Adoration? No. I mean if one were to accidentally trip just at that moment.
Well, I suppose it would if you did. But did you?
No, I merely hypothesised it.
I don't think there can be any such thing as a hypothetical coincidence, Pliny. That means at least one of the things didn't happen. So it can't be a proper coincidence. I do agree it would be funny though. As long as you didn't hurt yourself.
Funny indeed. In fact it is quite a funny song. What comes after 'Oh night deeevine'?
Oh-oh, niiight, when Christ was booorn, I crooned, pleased that I remembered it so well.
What night was that exactly? asked Pliny.
December the 25th of course, I replied.
Ah! said Pliny. The same night that Newton was born! Another coincidence!
Another hypothetical one, I muttered.
Go on, I said warily.
Imagine, he said, that you are walking to Norwood to post some letters and do some Christmas shopping. You're just turning in to Webbe Street between the carpark and the Plaza. All at once you hear the strains of Christmas music drifting across from the Parade. There are buildings in the way so you hear only one choral phrase, and that phrase is ' Fall on your knees '.
Oh, I know that one! I said. Oh heeear the angel voiiices, oh niiight divine, ohhhh night, oh night deeevine!
Really, said Pliny. Is that how it goes? Well, I didn't hear any of that, it was cut off. But I was thinking, when I heard it, would it not be an amusing coincidence if one were to fall upon one's knees?
What do you mean, Pliny? In adoration?
Adoration? No. I mean if one were to accidentally trip just at that moment.
Well, I suppose it would if you did. But did you?
No, I merely hypothesised it.
I don't think there can be any such thing as a hypothetical coincidence, Pliny. That means at least one of the things didn't happen. So it can't be a proper coincidence. I do agree it would be funny though. As long as you didn't hurt yourself.
Funny indeed. In fact it is quite a funny song. What comes after 'Oh night deeevine'?
Oh-oh, niiight, when Christ was booorn, I crooned, pleased that I remembered it so well.
What night was that exactly? asked Pliny.
December the 25th of course, I replied.
Ah! said Pliny. The same night that Newton was born! Another coincidence!
Another hypothetical one, I muttered.
Monday, December 21, 2009
The Minus Third Day of Christmas.
I didn't think your Minus Fourth Day of Christmas blog was very Christmassy, said Pliny the Elder.
What about the girl with the red shiny hair ? I asked. Wasn't she Christmassy?
Was she supposed to be ? asked Pliny.
That's why I put her in, I replied firmly.
So you made her up? frowned Pliny.
No Pliny, I never make anything up.
Well, what is your Christmas theme going to be today?
You probably won't believe me, but I was in North Adelaide this afternoon, waiting for my daughter, when I saw a second girl with shiny red hair crossing Ward Street. She was dressed in black. She was too far away for me to see if it was the same girl we saw at the beach.
No, said Pliny. That will not do.
What do you mean?
It is virtually the same theme.
No it isn't. The first time it was a girl with red shiny hair. The second time it was a coincidence.
But a coincidence is not in itself Christmassy.
It is, if the thing that happened twice was Christmassy.
A sophist's argument, sniffed Pliny.
What about the girl with the red shiny hair ? I asked. Wasn't she Christmassy?
Was she supposed to be ? asked Pliny.
That's why I put her in, I replied firmly.
So you made her up? frowned Pliny.
No Pliny, I never make anything up.
Well, what is your Christmas theme going to be today?
You probably won't believe me, but I was in North Adelaide this afternoon, waiting for my daughter, when I saw a second girl with shiny red hair crossing Ward Street. She was dressed in black. She was too far away for me to see if it was the same girl we saw at the beach.
No, said Pliny. That will not do.
What do you mean?
It is virtually the same theme.
No it isn't. The first time it was a girl with red shiny hair. The second time it was a coincidence.
But a coincidence is not in itself Christmassy.
It is, if the thing that happened twice was Christmassy.
A sophist's argument, sniffed Pliny.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Minus Fourth Day of Christmas.
We're at Port Willunga, best beach in the world.
The Star of Greece Cafe is full of late lunchers, looking out over the bay.
It's warm and sunny with a sea breeze. The sea is like spring water, and a cold spring roll, transparent, with dolphins inside. A giant jelly sits zen-like on the shore.
We're walking on shells beside million year old cliffs from which the colours have been leached.
And before us walks a girl with shiny crimson hair, a green tee-shirt, shorts and a silver belt.
The Star of Greece Cafe is full of late lunchers, looking out over the bay.
It's warm and sunny with a sea breeze. The sea is like spring water, and a cold spring roll, transparent, with dolphins inside. A giant jelly sits zen-like on the shore.
We're walking on shells beside million year old cliffs from which the colours have been leached.
And before us walks a girl with shiny crimson hair, a green tee-shirt, shorts and a silver belt.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The Minus Fifth Day of Christmas
I was on Hutt Street last week, said Pliny the Elder, waiting to cross over at the lights, when I happened to look at a tree I was standing next to. It had a length of red plastic net fixed round the trunk, the sort they use for oranges.
Really, I said, surprised. Was it an orange tree?
No, said Pliny. It was a plane tree. On further inspection I noticed that I was in fact looking at the back end of a large red Christmas bow.
What do you mean, the back end?
I mean that the bow was on the other side of the tree, visible only to the oncoming traffic.
How peculiar. Oncoming traffic does not need to be distracted by a Christmas bow.
Indeed. It was then I became aware that every tree on Hutt Street sported a similar bow. And that the ones on the opposite side were also angled to face the oncoming traffic.
Are you sure, Pliny? They were angled towards the road? And therefore away from the gaze of pedestrians, such as yourself?
Yes, said Pliny. I'm glad to see you agree with me that it is quite outrageous.
Really, I said, surprised. Was it an orange tree?
No, said Pliny. It was a plane tree. On further inspection I noticed that I was in fact looking at the back end of a large red Christmas bow.
What do you mean, the back end?
I mean that the bow was on the other side of the tree, visible only to the oncoming traffic.
How peculiar. Oncoming traffic does not need to be distracted by a Christmas bow.
Indeed. It was then I became aware that every tree on Hutt Street sported a similar bow. And that the ones on the opposite side were also angled to face the oncoming traffic.
Are you sure, Pliny? They were angled towards the road? And therefore away from the gaze of pedestrians, such as yourself?
Yes, said Pliny. I'm glad to see you agree with me that it is quite outrageous.
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Minus Sixth Day of Christmas.
Am I feeling Christmassy yet? No. Grumble, grumble, moan....
Waah!
Ooh, who said that?
Me, little Baby Jesus.
Gosh! Where are you?
I'm in a crib on George Street, wearing a red Christmas hat.
A red Christmas hat! That doesn't seem very appropriate.
I like it. I feel Christmassy. Have you got a hat?
Yes, I do have a Christmas hat. I wonder where it is......oh, here it is, in the bag of Christmas tree decorations.
Why don't you put it on?
It's too early. Hey, you're a very articulate little baby Jesus. Answer me this. Why isn't there one of you in the gazebo at Townsend House?
Hah! They wouldn't give me a hat.
Waah!
Ooh, who said that?
Me, little Baby Jesus.
Gosh! Where are you?
I'm in a crib on George Street, wearing a red Christmas hat.
A red Christmas hat! That doesn't seem very appropriate.
I like it. I feel Christmassy. Have you got a hat?
Yes, I do have a Christmas hat. I wonder where it is......oh, here it is, in the bag of Christmas tree decorations.
Why don't you put it on?
It's too early. Hey, you're a very articulate little baby Jesus. Answer me this. Why isn't there one of you in the gazebo at Townsend House?
Hah! They wouldn't give me a hat.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Minus Seventh Day of Christmas.
Christmas tree.
Today I put up a Christmas tree. The one I've kept in an orange bag in the garage, ever since creatures ate the box it came in. It was a long thin box and really hard to get the tree out of and back into. Now you know it isn't a real tree. For many years we used to buy a real tree but it used to make some of us sneeze.
The real tree was delivered by some charity, I don't remember which. They delivered it 7 days before Christmas, which the children always thought was way too late. It must have been, because when I put our tree up this morning I thought it was way too late as well. My daughter is coming tomorrow and we're going to decorate it together, that's why I've waited until today.
I didn't want to wait until tomorrow in case there were creatures in the bag. At first I thought there weren't but then, when I put my head into the bag, I could see that there were. Horrendously large browny-yellow multi-segmented wriggling larvae. I was glad my daughter wasn't going to see them. I tipped them out in the garden. She might see them there but she won't know where they've been.
I still don't feel Christmassy. That's probably because the tree is bare.
Today I put up a Christmas tree. The one I've kept in an orange bag in the garage, ever since creatures ate the box it came in. It was a long thin box and really hard to get the tree out of and back into. Now you know it isn't a real tree. For many years we used to buy a real tree but it used to make some of us sneeze.
The real tree was delivered by some charity, I don't remember which. They delivered it 7 days before Christmas, which the children always thought was way too late. It must have been, because when I put our tree up this morning I thought it was way too late as well. My daughter is coming tomorrow and we're going to decorate it together, that's why I've waited until today.
I didn't want to wait until tomorrow in case there were creatures in the bag. At first I thought there weren't but then, when I put my head into the bag, I could see that there were. Horrendously large browny-yellow multi-segmented wriggling larvae. I was glad my daughter wasn't going to see them. I tipped them out in the garden. She might see them there but she won't know where they've been.
I still don't feel Christmassy. That's probably because the tree is bare.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
The Minus Eighth Day of Christmas
On the minus eighth day of Christmas, which is today, I don't feel very Christmassy, but I know how to rectify that. From now until Christmas I'll write about Christmassy things. And so:
Nativity.
At Townsend Park, where my mum lives, the men have made lifesize painted plywood Christmas decorations and placed them at various points throughout the grounds. There are Disneyesque mice in red Christmas hats saluting near the flower bed, thin angels blowing golden horns at the end of the drive, reindeer with mouselike features prancing on the oval, and, the piece de resistance, a nativity scene in the gazebo, complete with everybody but the infant Jesus.
This lack of a baby Jesus is quite concerning. Mary, Joseph, the shepherds and the wise men staring into an empty cradle.
Has he been stolen?
Or has Easter come early?
Nativity.
At Townsend Park, where my mum lives, the men have made lifesize painted plywood Christmas decorations and placed them at various points throughout the grounds. There are Disneyesque mice in red Christmas hats saluting near the flower bed, thin angels blowing golden horns at the end of the drive, reindeer with mouselike features prancing on the oval, and, the piece de resistance, a nativity scene in the gazebo, complete with everybody but the infant Jesus.
This lack of a baby Jesus is quite concerning. Mary, Joseph, the shepherds and the wise men staring into an empty cradle.
Has he been stolen?
Or has Easter come early?
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
A Rose Poem Begun As Prose
Here's something. I had a white rose in a small brown vase on the kitchen windowsill, for months. It didn't stay white of course. It dried out and turned the colour of tearstained paper. The lavender flowers surrounding it were astonished, and refused to die. One day three rose petals dropped into the sink. I picked them up and placed them in my paper boats. They looked like little extra sails, optimistic, about to billow in the wind.
I was outside this morning looking at the roses. They were crisping up alarmingly in the heat. The red ones looked as though they had been subjected to an electric shock. The shock had curled the edges of their deep red petals, created creamy wedges in the frills, ripped holes in their underskirts,
and exposed their lurid yellow skin.
I had to bring them in.
And so the tearstained paper rose met its end.
It decomposed in a flutter of papery notes.
Five petals I put carefully into paper boats.
My rose, at rest, so fragile, in the sink.
The red electric fright roses replaced it.
Ah!
An earwig thrusts its tail at me from deep inside.
I was outside this morning looking at the roses. They were crisping up alarmingly in the heat. The red ones looked as though they had been subjected to an electric shock. The shock had curled the edges of their deep red petals, created creamy wedges in the frills, ripped holes in their underskirts,
and exposed their lurid yellow skin.
I had to bring them in.
And so the tearstained paper rose met its end.
It decomposed in a flutter of papery notes.
Five petals I put carefully into paper boats.
My rose, at rest, so fragile, in the sink.
The red electric fright roses replaced it.
Ah!
An earwig thrusts its tail at me from deep inside.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Pineapple: The Wow Factor
By now, the world knows that we are going to photograph every pineapple that we buy, before we eat it. We have created an album on Facebook for this purpose, and have already put one photo up.
There are as many reasons to photograph a pineapple as there are knobs on a pineapple, but I intend to list only a few.
Firstly, as it is extremely difficult to tell whether a pineapple is any good simply by looking at it, sniffing it, or pulling out one of the spiky leaves at the top, it will be very useful to have a record of what the best ones looked like, for future reference.
Secondly, it will provide us with a means of comparing the various sizes of the pineapples that we buy, which we know are always different, even when the price is exactly the same.
Thirdly, others may wish to comment on the magnificence of our pineapple. I note that someone has already commented on our first one, with the following comment : wow.
While this is most encouraging I cannot help being troubled by the lack of an exclamation mark at the end of the comment. It suggests a certain degree of underwhelmedness on the part of the commenter.
However, perhaps at this early stage of the project it is understandable.
There are as many reasons to photograph a pineapple as there are knobs on a pineapple, but I intend to list only a few.
Firstly, as it is extremely difficult to tell whether a pineapple is any good simply by looking at it, sniffing it, or pulling out one of the spiky leaves at the top, it will be very useful to have a record of what the best ones looked like, for future reference.
Secondly, it will provide us with a means of comparing the various sizes of the pineapples that we buy, which we know are always different, even when the price is exactly the same.
Thirdly, others may wish to comment on the magnificence of our pineapple. I note that someone has already commented on our first one, with the following comment : wow.
While this is most encouraging I cannot help being troubled by the lack of an exclamation mark at the end of the comment. It suggests a certain degree of underwhelmedness on the part of the commenter.
However, perhaps at this early stage of the project it is understandable.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Demise of Number 14
We've lived on this street for ten years now, approximately. No one's lived at number 14 for most of those.
We'd walk past in the evenings and see the setting sun reflected in the windows, which made it look like someone was inside.
But the broken blinds and flaking stucco walls, the cracking concrete and the unattended weeds, the ever growing collection of Messenger newspapers lying in the driveway, spoke of emptiness.
I've stared into those windows from the footpath, imagining some lonely person sitting in a darkened room inside, staring out, while their Messenger newspapers slowly turn to mush.
And their roses doggedly bloom, pink and red.
Now the house at number 14 has been pulled down. All that remains is a pile of rubble, and that too will soon be gone.
But for just a few days last week, when the house was still standing but the roof was gone, daylight poured in, illuminating the delicate lilac pink and lavender painted interior walls.
We'd walk past in the evenings and see the setting sun reflected in the windows, which made it look like someone was inside.
But the broken blinds and flaking stucco walls, the cracking concrete and the unattended weeds, the ever growing collection of Messenger newspapers lying in the driveway, spoke of emptiness.
I've stared into those windows from the footpath, imagining some lonely person sitting in a darkened room inside, staring out, while their Messenger newspapers slowly turn to mush.
And their roses doggedly bloom, pink and red.
Now the house at number 14 has been pulled down. All that remains is a pile of rubble, and that too will soon be gone.
But for just a few days last week, when the house was still standing but the roof was gone, daylight poured in, illuminating the delicate lilac pink and lavender painted interior walls.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
How to Surf
Pliny and Nostradamus are walking on the beach, between Semaphore South and Largs, wearing jackets they don't need, and hats.
The sea is jiggling and glinting like glutinous soup. Twenty two yachts with shadowy sails race slowly. A dinghy with an outboard motor and a canopy floats while the occupants fish.
The sand is sharp with fingernail shells and the dead seagrass waits in sculpted mounds.
The shallows are pink and green, and clear, revealing black seaweed archipelagoes, over which two small boys are drifting on foam bodyboards.
Excuse me! calls the littlest one.
Yes? say Pliny and Nostradamus.
Could you please show us how to surf?
You need to wait for a wave, says Pliny, helpfully. There are some out there, they'll soon be coming in.
Why? asks the little one.
It's what they do, says Pliny.
You'd do better up the beach a bit, says Nostradamus. The waves are bigger there.
But Pliny says, No no. Don't send them. (For their mum might not be pleased.)
The sea is jiggling and glinting like glutinous soup. Twenty two yachts with shadowy sails race slowly. A dinghy with an outboard motor and a canopy floats while the occupants fish.
The sand is sharp with fingernail shells and the dead seagrass waits in sculpted mounds.
The shallows are pink and green, and clear, revealing black seaweed archipelagoes, over which two small boys are drifting on foam bodyboards.
Excuse me! calls the littlest one.
Yes? say Pliny and Nostradamus.
Could you please show us how to surf?
You need to wait for a wave, says Pliny, helpfully. There are some out there, they'll soon be coming in.
Why? asks the little one.
It's what they do, says Pliny.
You'd do better up the beach a bit, says Nostradamus. The waves are bigger there.
But Pliny says, No no. Don't send them. (For their mum might not be pleased.)
Friday, December 11, 2009
Nemo Ipsum Solveat
No one will be able to solve it, I said to Pliny the Elder.
It doesn't matter, he replied. In fact I hope they can't. That will teach those editors to tell me what to write. They'll see I can do perfectly well without pretending to be a detective.
That's fine, I said, but ..... it is solvable, isn't it?
Of course it is, said Pliny, particularly by someone like you.
Like me? I repeated.
A fellow writer, he said, generously.
Well, let me have a go, I said. I know that what was written on the back of the piece of paper was what I saw you writing earlier when I sneaked a look over your shoulder.
Yes, correct, said Pliny. And you know that then I had to rejig it a bit because of that ridiculous request.
Mmm. Am I right that both sides of the paper were written in your handwritng?
Yes.
Aha! So you wrote down a list of facts relating to your original story. and then you changed the story. That's why they don't make sense to Gaius!
Yes, that's it! said Pliny.
But why are they inside the book that Gaius is reading? I asked, still struggling to understand. And why is the story he reads not the same as the one he remembers by Kafka?
Think! said Pliny. Who is Gaius?
You, I said. Oh I get it. This is all just about the process of writing, is it? Only you reversed it. Or turned it inside out. And allowed yourself to escape from your frame. Or something like that.
Right. Something like that, said Pliny.
It doesn't matter, he replied. In fact I hope they can't. That will teach those editors to tell me what to write. They'll see I can do perfectly well without pretending to be a detective.
That's fine, I said, but ..... it is solvable, isn't it?
Of course it is, said Pliny, particularly by someone like you.
Like me? I repeated.
A fellow writer, he said, generously.
Well, let me have a go, I said. I know that what was written on the back of the piece of paper was what I saw you writing earlier when I sneaked a look over your shoulder.
Yes, correct, said Pliny. And you know that then I had to rejig it a bit because of that ridiculous request.
Mmm. Am I right that both sides of the paper were written in your handwritng?
Yes.
Aha! So you wrote down a list of facts relating to your original story. and then you changed the story. That's why they don't make sense to Gaius!
Yes, that's it! said Pliny.
But why are they inside the book that Gaius is reading? I asked, still struggling to understand. And why is the story he reads not the same as the one he remembers by Kafka?
Think! said Pliny. Who is Gaius?
You, I said. Oh I get it. This is all just about the process of writing, is it? Only you reversed it. Or turned it inside out. And allowed yourself to escape from your frame. Or something like that.
Right. Something like that, said Pliny.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Per Ipsum Solveat
Your story is very Kafkaesque, I said to Pliny. It seems to be saying something about the human condition that I can't quite put my finger on, and then there's the astonishing ending.
Yes, said Pliny, I know it's a good story, but now listen to how I turn it into a mystery:
Gaius finished reading, and closed the book. He scratched his head. Most extraordinary! he muttered, looking at the cover once again. Yes, it was a book of Kafka's short stories, but the one he had just read was not like The Metamorphosis that he remembered. Perhaps partially, he conceded.
Just then a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor from between the pages of the book. He picked it up. It appeared to be a hand-written list, headed "Facts". He began to read:
1. A beetle has been squashed ( by a bicycle).
2. The beetle is of an undetermined size, as is the bicycle.
3. Therefore this is only a 'report' of a beetle being squashed by a bicycle,
4. The beetle has elsewhere been referred to as 'a giant beetle'.
5. Someone called 'K' is involved in the investigations.
6. He speaks German.
7. 'K' knew of the beetle both before and after the reported squashing.
8. 'K' has concluded something.
He speaks German? wondered Gaius. No, he doesn't. Gaius turned the piece of paper over. On the reverse side he read:
..... a giant beetle or cockroach, or as K originally referred to it, Ungeziefer. The actual measurements of the creature were not given, therefore it was not possible to ascertain whether it was likely to have been squashed when ridden over by an ordinary sized bicycle, or whether it had to be something larger. However, K concluded......
Now that rings a bell, said Gaius to himself. That definitely does ring a bell. But I can't quite put my finger on it. And I can't think straight without my toga. Oh well. Per ipsum solveat.
That's it, said Pliny.
What's per ipsum solveat?
You must solve it for yourself.
Oh, very good.
Yes, said Pliny. That will teach them.
Yes, said Pliny, I know it's a good story, but now listen to how I turn it into a mystery:
Gaius finished reading, and closed the book. He scratched his head. Most extraordinary! he muttered, looking at the cover once again. Yes, it was a book of Kafka's short stories, but the one he had just read was not like The Metamorphosis that he remembered. Perhaps partially, he conceded.
Just then a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor from between the pages of the book. He picked it up. It appeared to be a hand-written list, headed "Facts". He began to read:
1. A beetle has been squashed ( by a bicycle).
2. The beetle is of an undetermined size, as is the bicycle.
3. Therefore this is only a 'report' of a beetle being squashed by a bicycle,
4. The beetle has elsewhere been referred to as 'a giant beetle'.
5. Someone called 'K' is involved in the investigations.
6. He speaks German.
7. 'K' knew of the beetle both before and after the reported squashing.
8. 'K' has concluded something.
He speaks German? wondered Gaius. No, he doesn't. Gaius turned the piece of paper over. On the reverse side he read:
..... a giant beetle or cockroach, or as K originally referred to it, Ungeziefer. The actual measurements of the creature were not given, therefore it was not possible to ascertain whether it was likely to have been squashed when ridden over by an ordinary sized bicycle, or whether it had to be something larger. However, K concluded......
Now that rings a bell, said Gaius to himself. That definitely does ring a bell. But I can't quite put my finger on it. And I can't think straight without my toga. Oh well. Per ipsum solveat.
That's it, said Pliny.
What's per ipsum solveat?
You must solve it for yourself.
Oh, very good.
Yes, said Pliny. That will teach them.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Scene of the Crime
Are you ready for more of my story? asked Pliny the Elder.
You bet I am, I said. I'm listening.
Pliny cleared his throat and began to read:
K arrived at the office in a state of panic. Not only had he partially turned into a giant beetle, but he had failed to remain at the scene of an accident for which he had been ( only partially, he thought) responsible. He parked his bicycle and bolted up the stairs.
No one in the office bothered to greet him. They all had their heads down over various piles of papers. K slid into his seat, and looked at the single paper on his own desk. Urgent! it read. Accident at City Junction. Hit and run. Giant creature squashed. Police uncertain as to owner of boot-clad feet also found at the scene. Attend at once, file report.
K was in a quandary. He must return to the scene of the crime! But there were sure to be witnesses who would recognise him there. He wondered if Otto might be prevailed upon to go. He stood up and walked over to Otto. Otto! he said, trying not to sound too much like a beetle. Otto looked up. Sorry, far too busy, he said, and continued to shuffle his papers. Well, thought K, if he didn't notice....
K went back to the scene of the crime, on foot, and without his identifying hat. People were standing around the squashed beetle and the brown leather boots, but no one paid K much attention. What happened here? he asked a woman with a shopping basket. Ugh! she said. Someone's run over a huge insect. Look at the mess! Did you see it happen? asked K. Partially, said the woman. Well, no, I was looking in the opposite direction , but I heard everything. What did it sound like? asked K. Like a birth, the woman replied.
Well, that's the story, said Pliny. What do you think?
I'm speechless. Is that really the end?
No, said Pliny, just the end of that story. Of course I still have to close off the frame.
You bet I am, I said. I'm listening.
Pliny cleared his throat and began to read:
K arrived at the office in a state of panic. Not only had he partially turned into a giant beetle, but he had failed to remain at the scene of an accident for which he had been ( only partially, he thought) responsible. He parked his bicycle and bolted up the stairs.
No one in the office bothered to greet him. They all had their heads down over various piles of papers. K slid into his seat, and looked at the single paper on his own desk. Urgent! it read. Accident at City Junction. Hit and run. Giant creature squashed. Police uncertain as to owner of boot-clad feet also found at the scene. Attend at once, file report.
K was in a quandary. He must return to the scene of the crime! But there were sure to be witnesses who would recognise him there. He wondered if Otto might be prevailed upon to go. He stood up and walked over to Otto. Otto! he said, trying not to sound too much like a beetle. Otto looked up. Sorry, far too busy, he said, and continued to shuffle his papers. Well, thought K, if he didn't notice....
K went back to the scene of the crime, on foot, and without his identifying hat. People were standing around the squashed beetle and the brown leather boots, but no one paid K much attention. What happened here? he asked a woman with a shopping basket. Ugh! she said. Someone's run over a huge insect. Look at the mess! Did you see it happen? asked K. Partially, said the woman. Well, no, I was looking in the opposite direction , but I heard everything. What did it sound like? asked K. Like a birth, the woman replied.
Well, that's the story, said Pliny. What do you think?
I'm speechless. Is that really the end?
No, said Pliny, just the end of that story. Of course I still have to close off the frame.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Metamorphosis
Right! said Pliny the Elder. I've taken your advice, and I've added a frame.
That was quick! I exclaimed. Read it out.
Alright, said Pliny. Tell me what you think of this as a beginning:
Gaius Plinius Secundus was at a loose end. His toga was at the dry cleaners and he was confined to the house. He looked around for something with which to occupy his mind.
A loose end! That's not like you like you! I interrupted.
No, but the readers are not to know that. And besides, this is fiction.
Sorry, I said. I like how you got the toga in without having to wear it, I added.
Thank you, said Pliny. Now to continue:
Gaius looked idly along a row of old books in the bookcase, and picked up the one at the end. It was a book of short stories by Kafka. He leafed through until he came to The Metamorphosis, and began to read. This is strange, he said to himself. I thought I knew this story.
The story was about someone called K. One morning K woke up to discover he had partially turned into a giant beetle. ( Hmm, mused Gaius, he turned completely into a beetle in the story I remember). He got out of bed quite easily. That was because he still had human legs. Good, thought K, at least I will still be able to ride my bicycle. He ate some scraps out of the garbage pail, partially dressed himself and went downstairs to find his bike, so that he could ride to work. I hope they recognise me when I get there, he said to himself. I look very different from yesterday. And he ran back upstairs for his hat, by which he hoped to identify himself to his colleagues.
On the way to work, he found himself riding directly behind another beetle on a bicycle. This beetle, he was sorry to see, was almost all beetle, with long thin beetle legs, and was consequently having great trouble controlling his bike. Indeed this would have been all but impossible had he not possessed two human feet, clad in sturdy brown leather boots.
The beetle in the boots wobbled up to an intersection and stopped at the lights. Unfortunately K, who was thinking ahead to the office and wondering how he was going to access his files, rode straight into the stationary beetle, knocking him off his bicycle, upending him, and riding straight over his soft underbelly, squashing his guts out all over the road. In a panic, K rode away, never once looking behind him.
Pliny paused to take a breath. Well, he said. What do you think of it so far?
Fantastic! I said. Better than Kafka! The frame is working a treat. And the story's brilliant, so far. I can't wait to hear the rest.
And you will, said Pliny the Elder, just as soon as I've finished it off.
That was quick! I exclaimed. Read it out.
Alright, said Pliny. Tell me what you think of this as a beginning:
Gaius Plinius Secundus was at a loose end. His toga was at the dry cleaners and he was confined to the house. He looked around for something with which to occupy his mind.
A loose end! That's not like you like you! I interrupted.
No, but the readers are not to know that. And besides, this is fiction.
Sorry, I said. I like how you got the toga in without having to wear it, I added.
Thank you, said Pliny. Now to continue:
Gaius looked idly along a row of old books in the bookcase, and picked up the one at the end. It was a book of short stories by Kafka. He leafed through until he came to The Metamorphosis, and began to read. This is strange, he said to himself. I thought I knew this story.
The story was about someone called K. One morning K woke up to discover he had partially turned into a giant beetle. ( Hmm, mused Gaius, he turned completely into a beetle in the story I remember). He got out of bed quite easily. That was because he still had human legs. Good, thought K, at least I will still be able to ride my bicycle. He ate some scraps out of the garbage pail, partially dressed himself and went downstairs to find his bike, so that he could ride to work. I hope they recognise me when I get there, he said to himself. I look very different from yesterday. And he ran back upstairs for his hat, by which he hoped to identify himself to his colleagues.
On the way to work, he found himself riding directly behind another beetle on a bicycle. This beetle, he was sorry to see, was almost all beetle, with long thin beetle legs, and was consequently having great trouble controlling his bike. Indeed this would have been all but impossible had he not possessed two human feet, clad in sturdy brown leather boots.
The beetle in the boots wobbled up to an intersection and stopped at the lights. Unfortunately K, who was thinking ahead to the office and wondering how he was going to access his files, rode straight into the stationary beetle, knocking him off his bicycle, upending him, and riding straight over his soft underbelly, squashing his guts out all over the road. In a panic, K rode away, never once looking behind him.
Pliny paused to take a breath. Well, he said. What do you think of it so far?
Fantastic! I said. Better than Kafka! The frame is working a treat. And the story's brilliant, so far. I can't wait to hear the rest.
And you will, said Pliny the Elder, just as soon as I've finished it off.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Framed
And was there a shark? asked Pliny the Elder, or was it a false alarm?
Oh, you've been reading my blog, I said, pleased. Tell me, what did you think of my style?
Nothing but lists, said Pliny dismissively. Lists are no substitute for good writing.
But......oh, never mind. And no, there wasn't a shark. At least no one on shore could see one. Everyone was staring out to sea, the helicopter was hovering, and turning in circles, a couple of people came out of the water, the surfboarders paddled on regardless, a passerby asked me if there was a shark and I said that I didn't know. A little while later the helicopter flew off towards the south, and everyone carried on as before.
Perhaps the helicopter spotter was deceived by the shark blue sea, said Pliny, with a smile. Assuming that prescient colour was not the result of hindsight.
You're far too sharp for me Pliny, I said. By the way, how are you getting on with your Kafka story? Is it finished?
Don't ask, said Pliny, looking distressed. It was finished, but then I received a call from the editors asking for a followup to my last story.
That was good wasn't it? You had one all ready to go.
Yes, said Pliny, but they want it to be another detective story, and the protagonist has to be me.
What's wrong with that?
Not just me. Me in a toga!
Yes, but what's wrong with that?
I think you know. My story is about Kafka, a bicycle and a beetle.
Pliny, I said, in literature a tale can be altered, simply by adding a frame.
Oh, you've been reading my blog, I said, pleased. Tell me, what did you think of my style?
Nothing but lists, said Pliny dismissively. Lists are no substitute for good writing.
But......oh, never mind. And no, there wasn't a shark. At least no one on shore could see one. Everyone was staring out to sea, the helicopter was hovering, and turning in circles, a couple of people came out of the water, the surfboarders paddled on regardless, a passerby asked me if there was a shark and I said that I didn't know. A little while later the helicopter flew off towards the south, and everyone carried on as before.
Perhaps the helicopter spotter was deceived by the shark blue sea, said Pliny, with a smile. Assuming that prescient colour was not the result of hindsight.
You're far too sharp for me Pliny, I said. By the way, how are you getting on with your Kafka story? Is it finished?
Don't ask, said Pliny, looking distressed. It was finished, but then I received a call from the editors asking for a followup to my last story.
That was good wasn't it? You had one all ready to go.
Yes, said Pliny, but they want it to be another detective story, and the protagonist has to be me.
What's wrong with that?
Not just me. Me in a toga!
Yes, but what's wrong with that?
I think you know. My story is about Kafka, a bicycle and a beetle.
Pliny, I said, in literature a tale can be altered, simply by adding a frame.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
The Shark Perspectives
Oh what a multiplicity of views to be had yesterday between Hove and Seacliff by anyone walking due south along the breezy esplanade.
The first, a shock! The sand is low and wide. There's you, the rocks, a few low daisy plants, and three metres down, the sand, yellow and empty all the way to the jetty except for a man in a wide-brimmed hat, fishing at the edge of the sea. The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, shark blue.
A wooden seat on a concrete slab, the rocks, a sudden drop, the sandhills, rusty succulents and clumps of reeds, tipped with brown fuzzy pompoms, waving, the wide flat sand, the lifesavers' red and yellow tent and flags, the sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, and shark blue.
The bridge over the outlet, a sign, We Care for Water, a steep drop, between black rocks a pool, surprisingly clear.
A narrow pavement, scrubby trees, blocking out the view. A man and a woman, middle aged, walking a bulldog, that stops for a pee. A shuffling of walkers, and bikes.
Wire and shadecloth fence, ragged, low sandhills , camel humps of sand dumped by the council, sprouting seaweed hairs.
The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow and shark blue, six seagulls, a score of white-sailed yachts, surfboarders paddling north, a motor boat, and on the horizon, near the desal plant, a huge black Trojan Horse.
Children, running, wrapped in towels, a girl with a dozen balloons.
A helicopter, whirring overhead, stops ominously. Shark.
The first, a shock! The sand is low and wide. There's you, the rocks, a few low daisy plants, and three metres down, the sand, yellow and empty all the way to the jetty except for a man in a wide-brimmed hat, fishing at the edge of the sea. The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, shark blue.
A wooden seat on a concrete slab, the rocks, a sudden drop, the sandhills, rusty succulents and clumps of reeds, tipped with brown fuzzy pompoms, waving, the wide flat sand, the lifesavers' red and yellow tent and flags, the sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, and shark blue.
The bridge over the outlet, a sign, We Care for Water, a steep drop, between black rocks a pool, surprisingly clear.
A narrow pavement, scrubby trees, blocking out the view. A man and a woman, middle aged, walking a bulldog, that stops for a pee. A shuffling of walkers, and bikes.
Wire and shadecloth fence, ragged, low sandhills , camel humps of sand dumped by the council, sprouting seaweed hairs.
The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow and shark blue, six seagulls, a score of white-sailed yachts, surfboarders paddling north, a motor boat, and on the horizon, near the desal plant, a huge black Trojan Horse.
Children, running, wrapped in towels, a girl with a dozen balloons.
A helicopter, whirring overhead, stops ominously. Shark.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Strikes of the Negative Gardener
The Negative Gardener has just been outside, eating her lunch.
While eating she faced, due to the orientation of the seating, the lavender bush she had recently got at with the snippers, because she thought it was too big.
Of course, she had seen it immediately after completing her depredations, but that did not count, for she was temporarily on a lavender high.
Just now though, she has looked at it critically. It looks, she realised, like a troll. The stubby wizened legs exposed, the stiff green and purple hair defying gravity, and attracting a bee.
At least the bee likes it, she thought, as she turned to go inside. This involved a change of orientation, directing her attention to the Happy Plant, which was no longer living up to its name. It was dead in its pot under the pittosporum tree.
The Happy Plant had been happy for four years, in the kitchen. Her daughter had left it behind. The Negative Gardener had recently decided that it ought to go outside, when someone had given her a cyclamen in a pot, as a well-intentioned gift.
Poor Happy Plant! The Negative Gardener quite likes to watch plants die, but only if it can't be helped.
And the cyclamen is on its way out as well.
While eating she faced, due to the orientation of the seating, the lavender bush she had recently got at with the snippers, because she thought it was too big.
Of course, she had seen it immediately after completing her depredations, but that did not count, for she was temporarily on a lavender high.
Just now though, she has looked at it critically. It looks, she realised, like a troll. The stubby wizened legs exposed, the stiff green and purple hair defying gravity, and attracting a bee.
At least the bee likes it, she thought, as she turned to go inside. This involved a change of orientation, directing her attention to the Happy Plant, which was no longer living up to its name. It was dead in its pot under the pittosporum tree.
The Happy Plant had been happy for four years, in the kitchen. Her daughter had left it behind. The Negative Gardener had recently decided that it ought to go outside, when someone had given her a cyclamen in a pot, as a well-intentioned gift.
Poor Happy Plant! The Negative Gardener quite likes to watch plants die, but only if it can't be helped.
And the cyclamen is on its way out as well.
Friday, December 4, 2009
One Kafka Too Many
It looks like there's a race to be the next writer published in Velosophy.
And catastrophically, the main contenders are both Kafka.
To clarify, one is the real Kafka; the other Kafka is Pliny the Elder. Who will be the first to get his story to the office of the editors?
Let's look over the shoulders of the two would-be Kafkas, and see how they're getting on.
Here is the real Kafka hunched over his exercise book writing feverishly. He is continually being interrupted by members of his family walking back and forth between the bedroom and the dining room, for his bedroom is just a passage, with a bed in it. So what is he writing?
........K carried the tiny bicycle under his arm all the way to the Post Office, one pedal jammed uncomfortably against his ribs. He entered, to be confronted by a scowling woman behind the counter. It's forbidden to bring a bicycle into the Post Office, she said, waving a sheet..........
Mmm. Hard to tell where he's up to, but it seems to be somewhere in the middle. Let's go and spy on Pliny the Elder.
Here is Pliny the Elder hunched over his Notebook, typing away like the clappers, stopping occasionally to refer to a library book, " Franz Kafka: A Biographical Essay". It's not the type of library book, he usually reads. Perhaps it was borrowed from the library by somebody else. Let's see what he's writing.
.......a giant beetle, or cockroach or, as K originally referred to it, Ungeziefer. The actual measurements of the creature were not given, therefore it was not possible to ascertain whether it was likely to have been squashed when ridden over by an ordinary-sized bicycle, or whether it had to be something larger. However, K concluded........
Concluded! Pliny's going well! He could turn out to be the faster Kafka.
And catastrophically, the main contenders are both Kafka.
To clarify, one is the real Kafka; the other Kafka is Pliny the Elder. Who will be the first to get his story to the office of the editors?
Let's look over the shoulders of the two would-be Kafkas, and see how they're getting on.
Here is the real Kafka hunched over his exercise book writing feverishly. He is continually being interrupted by members of his family walking back and forth between the bedroom and the dining room, for his bedroom is just a passage, with a bed in it. So what is he writing?
........K carried the tiny bicycle under his arm all the way to the Post Office, one pedal jammed uncomfortably against his ribs. He entered, to be confronted by a scowling woman behind the counter. It's forbidden to bring a bicycle into the Post Office, she said, waving a sheet..........
Mmm. Hard to tell where he's up to, but it seems to be somewhere in the middle. Let's go and spy on Pliny the Elder.
Here is Pliny the Elder hunched over his Notebook, typing away like the clappers, stopping occasionally to refer to a library book, " Franz Kafka: A Biographical Essay". It's not the type of library book, he usually reads. Perhaps it was borrowed from the library by somebody else. Let's see what he's writing.
.......a giant beetle, or cockroach or, as K originally referred to it, Ungeziefer. The actual measurements of the creature were not given, therefore it was not possible to ascertain whether it was likely to have been squashed when ridden over by an ordinary-sized bicycle, or whether it had to be something larger. However, K concluded........
Concluded! Pliny's going well! He could turn out to be the faster Kafka.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Kafka's Bicycle
The editors of Velosophy are celebrating yet another triumph.
Le Bon David: Another glass of champagne, my friend?
The VeloDrone: Don't mind if I do, David, don't mind if I do.
Le Bon David: Cheers! Drink up. You know I still can't get over how popular that story of Pliny the Elder's has been. Who would have thought a detective story would appeal to philosophers, eh?
The VeloDrone: It's all to do with who he is, don't you think? If anyone else had written it, it would have gone down like a lead balloon.
Le Bon David: True. But I don't think anyone else could have written it, do you?
The VeloDrone: No. There's just something rather delicious about him going round solving mysteries in his toga.
Le Bon David: I'm thinking of asking him to write a follow up story. Another Pliny the Elder detective mystery. It could become a cult thing.
The VeloDrone: Yes let's ask him. Meanwhile, have you got any ideas for next week?
Le Bon David: I'm still waiting on 'Galileo's Bicycle' from Professor Freud. But I had an interesting letter from that chap whatsisname.... Kafka, recently. He seems keen to send us something. Says he's never ridden a bicycle in his life. Legs are too long. And he has a nasty cough. But he's nearly finished a piece that has a bicycle in it, 'albeit small' , he says.
The VeloDrone: Albeit small? Did he mean the bicycle or the story?
Le Bon David: We shall have to wait and see.
Le Bon David: Another glass of champagne, my friend?
The VeloDrone: Don't mind if I do, David, don't mind if I do.
Le Bon David: Cheers! Drink up. You know I still can't get over how popular that story of Pliny the Elder's has been. Who would have thought a detective story would appeal to philosophers, eh?
The VeloDrone: It's all to do with who he is, don't you think? If anyone else had written it, it would have gone down like a lead balloon.
Le Bon David: True. But I don't think anyone else could have written it, do you?
The VeloDrone: No. There's just something rather delicious about him going round solving mysteries in his toga.
Le Bon David: I'm thinking of asking him to write a follow up story. Another Pliny the Elder detective mystery. It could become a cult thing.
The VeloDrone: Yes let's ask him. Meanwhile, have you got any ideas for next week?
Le Bon David: I'm still waiting on 'Galileo's Bicycle' from Professor Freud. But I had an interesting letter from that chap whatsisname.... Kafka, recently. He seems keen to send us something. Says he's never ridden a bicycle in his life. Legs are too long. And he has a nasty cough. But he's nearly finished a piece that has a bicycle in it, 'albeit small' , he says.
The VeloDrone: Albeit small? Did he mean the bicycle or the story?
Le Bon David: We shall have to wait and see.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Inaction
Inaction! I echoed, slightly annoyed. I was thinking more along the lines of letting things take their own course, while keeping an eye out for culpability due to inaction on my part.
It's the same thing, remarked Pliny, if you don't do anything.
It isn't, I said. It's my way of living an examined life. You live an examined life don't you?
I am too busy, said Pliny.
Oh yes, I said. Have you sent off your bicycle story yet?
I have, said Pliny. It will be published tomorrow. I hope it will be well received.
Bound to be, I said. It's got everything. Mystery, music, comedy, an approaching storm, two bicycles, religious controversy, even an apotheosis of sorts.
Thanks, said Pliny, looking pleased. I wonder if they'll ask me for a follow-up.
Do you have another bicycle story in you? I asked.
Oh yes indeed I do, said Pliny. I've been reading Kafka. I have an idea for a story which I shall call Kafka's Bicycle. A man wakes up one morning to discover he's turned into a giant beetle.
How is that any different from Kafka's story?
There will be a bicycle in it.
But surely a beetle couldn't ride a bicycle.
I must say you have very little imagination.
True. I like to just sit back and let things take their course.
Do that. And I shall commence work on my story.
It's the same thing, remarked Pliny, if you don't do anything.
It isn't, I said. It's my way of living an examined life. You live an examined life don't you?
I am too busy, said Pliny.
Oh yes, I said. Have you sent off your bicycle story yet?
I have, said Pliny. It will be published tomorrow. I hope it will be well received.
Bound to be, I said. It's got everything. Mystery, music, comedy, an approaching storm, two bicycles, religious controversy, even an apotheosis of sorts.
Thanks, said Pliny, looking pleased. I wonder if they'll ask me for a follow-up.
Do you have another bicycle story in you? I asked.
Oh yes indeed I do, said Pliny. I've been reading Kafka. I have an idea for a story which I shall call Kafka's Bicycle. A man wakes up one morning to discover he's turned into a giant beetle.
How is that any different from Kafka's story?
There will be a bicycle in it.
But surely a beetle couldn't ride a bicycle.
I must say you have very little imagination.
True. I like to just sit back and let things take their course.
Do that. And I shall commence work on my story.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Existence Deconstructed
I believe I understand, said Pliny the Elder, why you held back from offering help to your mother when she was planting her petunias.
You do? I said, surprised.
I do, said Pliny. You did not wish to spoil her pleasure in a small task she enjoys. You did not wish to interfere, or to diminish her dignity as a person.
That is partly true, Pliny, I agreed. The other reason is that I dislike petunias.
Oh! said Pliny, that is a great deal less admirable, Why do you dislike them?
I don't know. Probably because she likes them so much.
Well! said Pliny. Perhaps I should delve no further into this.
Perhaps you shouldn't, I agreed. But tell me, what did you think of my existential companion piece, on the petrol vouchers and gold bottle top?
I did not quite know what to make of it, said Pliny. It was as if you thought what happened was in some way representative of human existence. But any other person would have put down the unwanted petrol vouchers and the bottle top at once.
Where, for example? I challenged.
You were in the car, were you not? I know that car. There are many little nooks and crannies where one might temporarily deposit a small piece of rubbish. The drink holder, the glove box, the space under the radio, said Pliny.
Go on, I said.
That space behind the door handle, the back seat, the floor, continued Pliny, warming up.
You are correct Pliny, I said. Another person may have put the rubbish in any one of those places. And remembered, or not remembered, to take the rubbish inside when they got home. But there is a key to every person. And these two pieces on existence were the key to me.
Aha! said Pliny suddenly, after thinking for a moment. I have it! Inaction!
You do? I said, surprised.
I do, said Pliny. You did not wish to spoil her pleasure in a small task she enjoys. You did not wish to interfere, or to diminish her dignity as a person.
That is partly true, Pliny, I agreed. The other reason is that I dislike petunias.
Oh! said Pliny, that is a great deal less admirable, Why do you dislike them?
I don't know. Probably because she likes them so much.
Well! said Pliny. Perhaps I should delve no further into this.
Perhaps you shouldn't, I agreed. But tell me, what did you think of my existential companion piece, on the petrol vouchers and gold bottle top?
I did not quite know what to make of it, said Pliny. It was as if you thought what happened was in some way representative of human existence. But any other person would have put down the unwanted petrol vouchers and the bottle top at once.
Where, for example? I challenged.
You were in the car, were you not? I know that car. There are many little nooks and crannies where one might temporarily deposit a small piece of rubbish. The drink holder, the glove box, the space under the radio, said Pliny.
Go on, I said.
That space behind the door handle, the back seat, the floor, continued Pliny, warming up.
You are correct Pliny, I said. Another person may have put the rubbish in any one of those places. And remembered, or not remembered, to take the rubbish inside when they got home. But there is a key to every person. And these two pieces on existence were the key to me.
Aha! said Pliny suddenly, after thinking for a moment. I have it! Inaction!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Existence Continued
And take the day before. I was at my mum's. She was planting out some new lobelias and petunias that she'd bought. I was watching her.
She was planting the lobelias in a wide shallow bowl. She made six indentations in the dirt with a trowel. This was the first time it occurred to me to ask if I could help.
I didn't ask. She squeezed the lobelias from the plastic punnet one by one and set them in the holes. Then she pressed the earth around them tightly till they stood up by themselves.
She made six more holes for six petunias. She'd been bent over that bowl for quite some time. She's eighty three. This was the second time it occurred to me to ask if I could help.
I didn't ask, but stood over her drinking my cup of tea. Hers was inside somewhere getting cold. I wondered if she'd started feeling dizzy.
She pressed the six petunias into place. There was one more punnet of petunias left to plant. She'd already made four holes in the centre of the bowl, before it occurred to me that I might ask if I could help. I didn't ask. There, that's all there's room for, she said, pressing in four of the last six plants. She straightened up.
That does look nice, I said. Yes, she said, now let's just hope it rains. Would you mind getting that watering can from over there. There might still be some water in it, and you could water them in.
She was planting the lobelias in a wide shallow bowl. She made six indentations in the dirt with a trowel. This was the first time it occurred to me to ask if I could help.
I didn't ask. She squeezed the lobelias from the plastic punnet one by one and set them in the holes. Then she pressed the earth around them tightly till they stood up by themselves.
She made six more holes for six petunias. She'd been bent over that bowl for quite some time. She's eighty three. This was the second time it occurred to me to ask if I could help.
I didn't ask, but stood over her drinking my cup of tea. Hers was inside somewhere getting cold. I wondered if she'd started feeling dizzy.
She pressed the six petunias into place. There was one more punnet of petunias left to plant. She'd already made four holes in the centre of the bowl, before it occurred to me that I might ask if I could help. I didn't ask. There, that's all there's room for, she said, pressing in four of the last six plants. She straightened up.
That does look nice, I said. Yes, she said, now let's just hope it rains. Would you mind getting that watering can from over there. There might still be some water in it, and you could water them in.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Existence
Take today. I'm in the car, a passenger. We need to get some petrol. I rifle through my petrol vouchers. Three of them are out of date. I screw them up. I don't have anywhere to put them. I hold them in my hand until we get to where were going. It's an industrial complex. I toss them in a Hippo Bin.
We're meeting a man there. He's going to give us some things. They are in cardboard boxes. You'd better look inside, says the man. One of the boxes contains cds and paper instructions, and a gold bottle top. I get the gold bottle top to hold. I hold the bottle top all the way to the Fish Factory, which is our next stop. There's a winged shield on the bottle top, or a winged helmet, if you look at it the other way up. It's sharp and cuts into my palm. At the Fish Factory I toss it in the bin near the door.
Now I'm handsfree again. But we still haven't got the petrol. We stop at a petrol station. I look through my petrol vouchers and discover another one that's expired. I screw it up. There's a bin but it's for paper towels. I clutch the screwed up voucher in my hand all the rest of the way home.
We're meeting a man there. He's going to give us some things. They are in cardboard boxes. You'd better look inside, says the man. One of the boxes contains cds and paper instructions, and a gold bottle top. I get the gold bottle top to hold. I hold the bottle top all the way to the Fish Factory, which is our next stop. There's a winged shield on the bottle top, or a winged helmet, if you look at it the other way up. It's sharp and cuts into my palm. At the Fish Factory I toss it in the bin near the door.
Now I'm handsfree again. But we still haven't got the petrol. We stop at a petrol station. I look through my petrol vouchers and discover another one that's expired. I screw it up. There's a bin but it's for paper towels. I clutch the screwed up voucher in my hand all the rest of the way home.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Contradictions
It's last night. Well, no it can't be, but let us say that it is. I am trying to delete a comment on Facebook.
It came about like this. Dresses are in, this summer. I've been making myself a dress. Getting carried away, I mentioned it several times on Facebook. Eventually my daughter took the bait. Who is the mysterious dress for? she wrote. Are you afraid it is for you? I replied. Yes, she answered. Fear not, said I, it is for me.
Then, in order to show her that, had I made the dress for her, she would have liked it, I took a photo and uploaded it onto my page. What do you think? I asked.
Last night we had a conversation in which the dress figured briefly. Suffice to say that after this I decided to delete both the photograph and the final question, 'what do you think ?', as now I knew the answer.
So, it is last night. I am trying to delete a comment. I press delete. Are you sure you want to delete this comment, says Facebook, rudely.
Yes, I say.
Your comment is deleted, says Facebook.
Good, I say.
But a few minutes later I see that my comment is still there.
I press delete.
This comment has already been deleted, says Facebook. The comment does not exist.
Well, I think to myself, I can see it. Where does that leave me?
It came about like this. Dresses are in, this summer. I've been making myself a dress. Getting carried away, I mentioned it several times on Facebook. Eventually my daughter took the bait. Who is the mysterious dress for? she wrote. Are you afraid it is for you? I replied. Yes, she answered. Fear not, said I, it is for me.
Then, in order to show her that, had I made the dress for her, she would have liked it, I took a photo and uploaded it onto my page. What do you think? I asked.
Last night we had a conversation in which the dress figured briefly. Suffice to say that after this I decided to delete both the photograph and the final question, 'what do you think ?', as now I knew the answer.
So, it is last night. I am trying to delete a comment. I press delete. Are you sure you want to delete this comment, says Facebook, rudely.
Yes, I say.
Your comment is deleted, says Facebook.
Good, I say.
But a few minutes later I see that my comment is still there.
I press delete.
This comment has already been deleted, says Facebook. The comment does not exist.
Well, I think to myself, I can see it. Where does that leave me?
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Bicycle Detective Part 4
That's it, said Pliny the Elder. What do you think?
I love it, I said, but I'm wondering whether I gave you some bad advice.
What was it? asked Pliny.
When I told you to ditch the toga, because it revealed who you were. I didn't realise your costume was a crucial part of the plot.
It was? said Pliny, surprised.
Well yes, it was. The New Lifers thought you were the Messiah because you were wearing it. But the readers of Velosophy won't know that you were wearing it unless you tell them.
But then everyone will know that it was me, said Pliny.
Yes, that is the dilemma that you must resolve, I said. I don't see how you can get out of it really. You can't just introduce a character who happens to be walking around the streets at night in a toga for no particular reason.
What if it were a dressing gown? asked Pliny hopefully.
A dressing gown! These are not the sort of people who would be duped by a dressing gown, I said firmly.
Well, then, said Pliny. I must reintroduce the toga. Goodbye privacy!
I love it, I said, but I'm wondering whether I gave you some bad advice.
What was it? asked Pliny.
When I told you to ditch the toga, because it revealed who you were. I didn't realise your costume was a crucial part of the plot.
It was? said Pliny, surprised.
Well yes, it was. The New Lifers thought you were the Messiah because you were wearing it. But the readers of Velosophy won't know that you were wearing it unless you tell them.
But then everyone will know that it was me, said Pliny.
Yes, that is the dilemma that you must resolve, I said. I don't see how you can get out of it really. You can't just introduce a character who happens to be walking around the streets at night in a toga for no particular reason.
What if it were a dressing gown? asked Pliny hopefully.
A dressing gown! These are not the sort of people who would be duped by a dressing gown, I said firmly.
Well, then, said Pliny. I must reintroduce the toga. Goodbye privacy!
Thursday, November 26, 2009
The Bicycle Detective Part 3
How's it going? I asked Pliny the Elder.
He looked up. Nearly finished, he said. It's not as easy as I thought, to write a story.
But it's a true story isn't it? I said.
Oh yes, he replied. But it's all in the telling. Now that I've reached the denouement, I'm wondering how to reveal it.
Just write what happened next, I suggested. What did happen next?
Very well. After half an hour standing under a wind-tossed tree expecting any minute to be caught in a storm, Gaius was about to go home. But just then he noticed the two bicyclists illuminated in the doorway of the church hall. They appeared to be waving goodbye to the people inside. Hurrying down the steps they headed for the bicycles. Gaius made a split-second decision.
That's good, I said, encouragingly. A split-second decision! You know how to make it exciting.
No I don't, said Pliny. And don't interrupt. Gaius crossed the road. He approached the mysterious bicyclists. I beg both your pardons, he said. But would you please tell me what goes on in there?
Oh, said the first cyclist, the one with the case. I'm awfully sorry but we really can't stay. We have to get back to our own music practice before we are missed. You see we've been moonlighting. Why don't you go in and meet some of the nice folks inside. They will be only too happy to see you. By the way, can you sing? Why yes, said Gaius, as a matter of fact I have a fine tenor voice.
Oh Pliny, I said. Do you have a fine tenor voice?
I do, he said. But as soon as Gaius said it he knew he'd be sorry.
Did he go in? I asked.
He didn't want to. But by then it was too late. Several members of the New Life community had come out to see what was happening. They drew him up the steps and into the hall. Inside the hall all the New Lifers crowded around him. Some of them smiled at him shyly. One or two patted his garment. They set up a chair on the stage and led him up to it. Then they knelt on the floorboards around him with their heads bowed and their palms together, as if waiting for something.
Pliny, they thought you were the Messiah! What did you do?
I sang Down By the Sally Gardens, and Molly on the Shore. Then I excused myself and went home. They all came out to wave me goodbye and asked me to come back again next Tuesday.
He looked up. Nearly finished, he said. It's not as easy as I thought, to write a story.
But it's a true story isn't it? I said.
Oh yes, he replied. But it's all in the telling. Now that I've reached the denouement, I'm wondering how to reveal it.
Just write what happened next, I suggested. What did happen next?
Very well. After half an hour standing under a wind-tossed tree expecting any minute to be caught in a storm, Gaius was about to go home. But just then he noticed the two bicyclists illuminated in the doorway of the church hall. They appeared to be waving goodbye to the people inside. Hurrying down the steps they headed for the bicycles. Gaius made a split-second decision.
That's good, I said, encouragingly. A split-second decision! You know how to make it exciting.
No I don't, said Pliny. And don't interrupt. Gaius crossed the road. He approached the mysterious bicyclists. I beg both your pardons, he said. But would you please tell me what goes on in there?
Oh, said the first cyclist, the one with the case. I'm awfully sorry but we really can't stay. We have to get back to our own music practice before we are missed. You see we've been moonlighting. Why don't you go in and meet some of the nice folks inside. They will be only too happy to see you. By the way, can you sing? Why yes, said Gaius, as a matter of fact I have a fine tenor voice.
Oh Pliny, I said. Do you have a fine tenor voice?
I do, he said. But as soon as Gaius said it he knew he'd be sorry.
Did he go in? I asked.
He didn't want to. But by then it was too late. Several members of the New Life community had come out to see what was happening. They drew him up the steps and into the hall. Inside the hall all the New Lifers crowded around him. Some of them smiled at him shyly. One or two patted his garment. They set up a chair on the stage and led him up to it. Then they knelt on the floorboards around him with their heads bowed and their palms together, as if waiting for something.
Pliny, they thought you were the Messiah! What did you do?
I sang Down By the Sally Gardens, and Molly on the Shore. Then I excused myself and went home. They all came out to wave me goodbye and asked me to come back again next Tuesday.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Bicycle Detective Part 2
Pliny the Elder wrote for a while, then paused.
Should I give myself a name, do you think? he asked.
Instead of 'the man'. Yes I do, I said.
I was thinking of Gaius, he said, matter-of-factly.
It sounds a bit...... Roman, I said. How about Guy?
No, I like Gaius, said Pliny. Let me try it. Da de da..... It wasn't long before Gaius saw something mysterious happen. A figure emerged from the building on the opposite corner, carrying a large case. The figure crossed Portrush Road and went straight to the first bicycle. Having unchained it, he got on the bicycle and rode off down Dover Street in a westerly direction. Gaius was just about to start after him, when a second figure emerged from the same building, crossed Portrush Road, unchained the second bicycle, mounted it and rode off in the same direction as the first rider had done, but much faster. Gaius followed as best he could, keeping to the shadows of the trees.
But how could he keep up with the bicycles? I asked, disbelievingly.
He couldn't, said Pliny. But luckily for him the bicycles weren't going very far. He could already see that a few hundred metres down the road they had both stopped outside the Maylands Austral-Asian New Life Community Church.
And gone inside? I asked.
Yes, and gone inside, he replied. I, that is to say Gaius, walked up to the Church and stood behind a tree opposite, to observe the building. It was all lit up and there were sounds of joyful off-key singing floating out through the doors and towards his ears.
Oh yes, I said. It must have been Tuesday, their singing practice night.
You knew? said Pliny, looking surprised.
I did, I said. We've often passed that church on Tuesday night and heard their joyful off-key singing.
Well, well, said Pliny, if I had known you knew that, it would have saved me a lot of time and research. Now I suppose you are going to tell me you know that the building on the corner of Portrush Road opposite Dover Street is the Trinity Gardens Seventh Day Adventist Church and that their music practice is held on the very same night.
No, I wasn't going to tell you, I said.
Good, said Pliny. Then go away and let me get on with writing my story.
Should I give myself a name, do you think? he asked.
Instead of 'the man'. Yes I do, I said.
I was thinking of Gaius, he said, matter-of-factly.
It sounds a bit...... Roman, I said. How about Guy?
No, I like Gaius, said Pliny. Let me try it. Da de da..... It wasn't long before Gaius saw something mysterious happen. A figure emerged from the building on the opposite corner, carrying a large case. The figure crossed Portrush Road and went straight to the first bicycle. Having unchained it, he got on the bicycle and rode off down Dover Street in a westerly direction. Gaius was just about to start after him, when a second figure emerged from the same building, crossed Portrush Road, unchained the second bicycle, mounted it and rode off in the same direction as the first rider had done, but much faster. Gaius followed as best he could, keeping to the shadows of the trees.
But how could he keep up with the bicycles? I asked, disbelievingly.
He couldn't, said Pliny. But luckily for him the bicycles weren't going very far. He could already see that a few hundred metres down the road they had both stopped outside the Maylands Austral-Asian New Life Community Church.
And gone inside? I asked.
Yes, and gone inside, he replied. I, that is to say Gaius, walked up to the Church and stood behind a tree opposite, to observe the building. It was all lit up and there were sounds of joyful off-key singing floating out through the doors and towards his ears.
Oh yes, I said. It must have been Tuesday, their singing practice night.
You knew? said Pliny, looking surprised.
I did, I said. We've often passed that church on Tuesday night and heard their joyful off-key singing.
Well, well, said Pliny, if I had known you knew that, it would have saved me a lot of time and research. Now I suppose you are going to tell me you know that the building on the corner of Portrush Road opposite Dover Street is the Trinity Gardens Seventh Day Adventist Church and that their music practice is held on the very same night.
No, I wasn't going to tell you, I said.
Good, said Pliny. Then go away and let me get on with writing my story.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The Bicycle Detective Part 1
Right, said Pliny the Elder. I think I'm ready to begin my first draft. Hmm dm dm dm dm...It was a dark and stormy night....
Pliny, I said. I couldn't help overhearing. May I suggest you don't use that as a beginning.
Why not? asked Pliny, looking surprised. It WAS a dark and stormy night.
Yes but that was how Snoopy always used to start his stories in the Peanuts cartoons, I said. It sets the wrong sort of tone.
Oh, very well, said Pliny. It was a dark and windy night, with the possibility of storms. How's that?
Good, I said.
Two bicycles were chained to two posts within metres of each other on Dover Street, near to the corner of Portrush Road. A man, lurking behind a tree, on the opposite side of Dover Street, shivered and wrapped his toga more tightly around his body.
It's you! I said.
How did you know? asked Pliny.
The toga, I said.
Perhaps I should change it, said Pliny, looking uncertain.
Well yes, if you don't want anyone to know that it's you, I said kindly.
.....and wrapped his arms more tightly around his body, continued Pliny seamlessly. He was keeping an eye on the bicycles, which he thought should not have been where they were. There were two possibilities, he thought. First, that the bicycles were there for the night, to be used in the morning for riding to work or to school. This did not make much sense. The owners would surely have taken their bicycles onto their property, and not chained them up in the street. All the nearby houses had large gardens, he could see. The second possibility was that the bicycles were there for some dubious purpose, and if that was the case, he wanted to know what it was. He rather hoped it would turn out to be the latter.
Why did he hope that? I asked.
Obviously, then he wouldn't have to stay out all night, said Pliny.
And did he have to stay out all night?
No, he didn't.
So you have solved it?
Yes, said Pliny, I have. Now please be quiet while I get on with writing it down.
Pliny, I said. I couldn't help overhearing. May I suggest you don't use that as a beginning.
Why not? asked Pliny, looking surprised. It WAS a dark and stormy night.
Yes but that was how Snoopy always used to start his stories in the Peanuts cartoons, I said. It sets the wrong sort of tone.
Oh, very well, said Pliny. It was a dark and windy night, with the possibility of storms. How's that?
Good, I said.
Two bicycles were chained to two posts within metres of each other on Dover Street, near to the corner of Portrush Road. A man, lurking behind a tree, on the opposite side of Dover Street, shivered and wrapped his toga more tightly around his body.
It's you! I said.
How did you know? asked Pliny.
The toga, I said.
Perhaps I should change it, said Pliny, looking uncertain.
Well yes, if you don't want anyone to know that it's you, I said kindly.
.....and wrapped his arms more tightly around his body, continued Pliny seamlessly. He was keeping an eye on the bicycles, which he thought should not have been where they were. There were two possibilities, he thought. First, that the bicycles were there for the night, to be used in the morning for riding to work or to school. This did not make much sense. The owners would surely have taken their bicycles onto their property, and not chained them up in the street. All the nearby houses had large gardens, he could see. The second possibility was that the bicycles were there for some dubious purpose, and if that was the case, he wanted to know what it was. He rather hoped it would turn out to be the latter.
Why did he hope that? I asked.
Obviously, then he wouldn't have to stay out all night, said Pliny.
And did he have to stay out all night?
No, he didn't.
So you have solved it?
Yes, said Pliny, I have. Now please be quiet while I get on with writing it down.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Something To Do
Your front garden looks very tidy, said Pliny the Elder, walking up the path.
Yes, I've pulled up all this grass, I said.
You deserve a grass crown, said Pliny, smiling.
What's that? I asked.
Oh, we used to award them to generals who had accomplished great deeds, said Pliny. And we didn't award them lightly.
Will you make me one? I asked.
Oh no, I am far too busy, said Pliny.
Why, what are you doing?
I'm continuing my investigations, said Pliny mysteriously.
Into the bicycles on Dover Street?
Yes, and I believe I am close to solving the puzzle, he said, looking up and down the road to see if anyone was eavesdropping.
How? I asked.
By the use of the street directory, google maps and the internet, not to mention some very tedious footwork and a great deal of standing, or perhaps I should say lurking, behind trees under cover of night.
Oh Pliny, how thrilling! And will you tell me what you know so far?
No, said Pliny.
Not even a clue? I said pleadingly.
Well, said Pliny, relenting. I believe it has something to do with the New Life Community Church.
Yes, I've pulled up all this grass, I said.
You deserve a grass crown, said Pliny, smiling.
What's that? I asked.
Oh, we used to award them to generals who had accomplished great deeds, said Pliny. And we didn't award them lightly.
Will you make me one? I asked.
Oh no, I am far too busy, said Pliny.
Why, what are you doing?
I'm continuing my investigations, said Pliny mysteriously.
Into the bicycles on Dover Street?
Yes, and I believe I am close to solving the puzzle, he said, looking up and down the road to see if anyone was eavesdropping.
How? I asked.
By the use of the street directory, google maps and the internet, not to mention some very tedious footwork and a great deal of standing, or perhaps I should say lurking, behind trees under cover of night.
Oh Pliny, how thrilling! And will you tell me what you know so far?
No, said Pliny.
Not even a clue? I said pleadingly.
Well, said Pliny, relenting. I believe it has something to do with the New Life Community Church.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
A Negative Gardener
Now it is cool, Pliny is catching up on some gardening. She is in the front garden, gardening the only way she knows how.
Pliny gardens with a dinner knife. It is a very short dinner knife, now. She uses it to gouge out the grass that grows vigorously between the pavers at the edge of the almost dead lawn. She has long since stopped thinking that this is a paradox. She just gets down to it, and pulls out grass with the dinner knife, which is short due to the ravages of friction.
There is an art to ripping out grass from between pavers. Pliny has not mastered it yet. She uses her thumb delicately enough, and knows how to grasp just the right amount of grass between it and the flat blade of the knife so that when she yanks it she won't fall over backwards. But she doesn't know how to deal with the flat cushion of tiny grass roots that remain to sprout another day. Nor can she protect her knuckles from the fate that has befallen the knife.
Her back hurts. I'm a negative gardener, thinks Pliny.
Pliny gardens with a dinner knife. It is a very short dinner knife, now. She uses it to gouge out the grass that grows vigorously between the pavers at the edge of the almost dead lawn. She has long since stopped thinking that this is a paradox. She just gets down to it, and pulls out grass with the dinner knife, which is short due to the ravages of friction.
There is an art to ripping out grass from between pavers. Pliny has not mastered it yet. She uses her thumb delicately enough, and knows how to grasp just the right amount of grass between it and the flat blade of the knife so that when she yanks it she won't fall over backwards. But she doesn't know how to deal with the flat cushion of tiny grass roots that remain to sprout another day. Nor can she protect her knuckles from the fate that has befallen the knife.
Her back hurts. I'm a negative gardener, thinks Pliny.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Chicken Wednesday
Pliny was getting her diary up to date, She hadn't written anything since last Wednesday.
Pliny's motto is No Day Without A Line. She took the motto from someone she read about in Brewers. The person lived in classical times and was a painter. So 'line' would have meant something different to him. Pliny likes this.
Pliny hasn't lived up to her motto. After ten years of being fairly strict she let her standards lapse. This coincided with the time she started blogging. However, she still likes to keep her diary looking as though there has been no day without a line.
But last night, she came up against a blank. What had she done last Wednesday? She thought for a minute and couldn't remember anything. She left two lines empty and started writing about Thursday. She knew exactly what she'd done on Thursday. Ditto Friday. And Saturday, which day it currently was.
And now she was faced with the four blank lines for Wednesday. She wrote: What shall I do? I have forgotten everything about this day. I do know it was hot though, and we may have had chicken for tea.
Then in a flood of remorse she added: And we may not.
She thought of the chicken, not properly remembered. She drew a little chicken after the word 'not'. It was a good chicken. It looked feisty. She drew a speech bubble coming out of its mouth. Don't you know? it said.
Pliny's motto is No Day Without A Line. She took the motto from someone she read about in Brewers. The person lived in classical times and was a painter. So 'line' would have meant something different to him. Pliny likes this.
Pliny hasn't lived up to her motto. After ten years of being fairly strict she let her standards lapse. This coincided with the time she started blogging. However, she still likes to keep her diary looking as though there has been no day without a line.
But last night, she came up against a blank. What had she done last Wednesday? She thought for a minute and couldn't remember anything. She left two lines empty and started writing about Thursday. She knew exactly what she'd done on Thursday. Ditto Friday. And Saturday, which day it currently was.
And now she was faced with the four blank lines for Wednesday. She wrote: What shall I do? I have forgotten everything about this day. I do know it was hot though, and we may have had chicken for tea.
Then in a flood of remorse she added: And we may not.
She thought of the chicken, not properly remembered. She drew a little chicken after the word 'not'. It was a good chicken. It looked feisty. She drew a speech bubble coming out of its mouth. Don't you know? it said.
Friday, November 20, 2009
The Beauty Of Cool
It was cooler today. Although the heat still lingered in pockets. And damp, too.
Pliny and Nostradamus went to town to do some Christmas shopping. They walked across the parklands under a powder grey sky, a sharp scent of eucalyptus rising from the earth.
In David Jones Pliny bought a tin of Love Balm. You've been pre-approved for a David Jones American Express card, said the shop assistant. But I don't want one, said Pliny. This would be the worst possible time in the entire history of the planet to get one, she thought, but did not add.
They bought some socks, and Christmas stickers, then walked down Rundle Street. They could see the distant hills. Olive grey hills, covered in a faint and steamy mist. Pliny was thinking: everything is grey today. A man walked by in red shoes.
On their way home, Pliny and Nostradamus stopped in Norwood to shop. They walked through a hot corridor, smelling of yesterday, to The Parade. The Parade was blocked off to all traffic. A crowd, gathered near a row of red racing cars, chatted in a desultory way.
Pliny and Nostradamus went to town to do some Christmas shopping. They walked across the parklands under a powder grey sky, a sharp scent of eucalyptus rising from the earth.
In David Jones Pliny bought a tin of Love Balm. You've been pre-approved for a David Jones American Express card, said the shop assistant. But I don't want one, said Pliny. This would be the worst possible time in the entire history of the planet to get one, she thought, but did not add.
They bought some socks, and Christmas stickers, then walked down Rundle Street. They could see the distant hills. Olive grey hills, covered in a faint and steamy mist. Pliny was thinking: everything is grey today. A man walked by in red shoes.
On their way home, Pliny and Nostradamus stopped in Norwood to shop. They walked through a hot corridor, smelling of yesterday, to The Parade. The Parade was blocked off to all traffic. A crowd, gathered near a row of red racing cars, chatted in a desultory way.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Worst Walk
Well, well, said Pliny the Elder. I've been invited to write an article for Velosophy.
What! I said. Have you? But you don't know anything about bicycles.
That does not seem to matter, said Pliny grandly. My reputation as a natural historian is sufficient to recommend me.
Well done then, I said. And congratulations. But you do know, don't you, that it will have to have bicycles in it. Or at least one bicycle. And I remember you telling me there weren't any bicycles in ancient Rome.
Yes, but there are bicycles everywhere nowadays, said Pliny. In fact they seem to be proliferating like flies. Have you noticed that where there used to be one chained up to a post every night on the corner of Dover Street and Portrush Road, now there are two?
I have noticed, I said. I can't imagine what circumstances could have resulted in that. Can you?
No, said Pliny. But I intend to investigate further. I shall go out tonight for a walk and observe what happens on Dover Street.
Good luck, I said. You will have to be there at exactly the right moment or you won't be any the wiser.
Perhaps I might enlist your aid then, said Pliny. You always go for an evening stroll.
Certainly. I shall keep my eyes open tonight, I said helpfully. Unless of course tonight is like last night.
Why, what happened last night?
I walked home very fast with my eyes covered.
My, that does sound dangerous. Why on earth was that?
The worst walk ever, I replied. Thunder and lightning; the sky was black and fluoro pink. A massive wind got up and the air was filled with dust. We hurried home to avoid being killed by falling branches.
Falling branches? Pliny looked alarmed.
Perhaps I'll postpone my investigations for a day or two, he said.
What! I said. Have you? But you don't know anything about bicycles.
That does not seem to matter, said Pliny grandly. My reputation as a natural historian is sufficient to recommend me.
Well done then, I said. And congratulations. But you do know, don't you, that it will have to have bicycles in it. Or at least one bicycle. And I remember you telling me there weren't any bicycles in ancient Rome.
Yes, but there are bicycles everywhere nowadays, said Pliny. In fact they seem to be proliferating like flies. Have you noticed that where there used to be one chained up to a post every night on the corner of Dover Street and Portrush Road, now there are two?
I have noticed, I said. I can't imagine what circumstances could have resulted in that. Can you?
No, said Pliny. But I intend to investigate further. I shall go out tonight for a walk and observe what happens on Dover Street.
Good luck, I said. You will have to be there at exactly the right moment or you won't be any the wiser.
Perhaps I might enlist your aid then, said Pliny. You always go for an evening stroll.
Certainly. I shall keep my eyes open tonight, I said helpfully. Unless of course tonight is like last night.
Why, what happened last night?
I walked home very fast with my eyes covered.
My, that does sound dangerous. Why on earth was that?
The worst walk ever, I replied. Thunder and lightning; the sky was black and fluoro pink. A massive wind got up and the air was filled with dust. We hurried home to avoid being killed by falling branches.
Falling branches? Pliny looked alarmed.
Perhaps I'll postpone my investigations for a day or two, he said.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Pure Narrative
Un..bee...leivable! whistled the VeloDrone. They loved Freud's story about his granddaughter's bicycle. Just look at all these comments!
Le Bon David shook his head. I don't understand it, he said. I thought we had a better class of readers than that. It was nothing but pure narrative with no philosophical content at all.
Steady on, said the VeloDrone, it was your idea to tell them that anything could be considered philosophy as long as it had a bike in it.
Oh please! snapped Le Bon David. Don't tell me you don't understand irony either.
Yes, yes, of course I do, David, I'm just saying we shouldn't be surprised. Now look at this comment here. It's from a chap called Gaius Plinius Secundus. He says it's a very moving story, full of wisdom and nobility. He says he's going to recommend our magazine to all his friends.
Did you say Gaius Plinius Secundus, VeloDrone?
Yes.
The famous Pliny the Elder?
Why yes, I suppose so, David.
Here's a thought. What say we ask him to contribute an article? Now that would be something worth reading, I'll bet you a farthing.
Hee Hee! A penny farthing ! But yes it's time we took back control of our magazine. Submitting to blackmail is no way to guarantee quality.
It certainly isn't. One only has to remember the fake Stephen Hawking debacle. Alright. I'll get on to Pliny tonight.
Le Bon David shook his head. I don't understand it, he said. I thought we had a better class of readers than that. It was nothing but pure narrative with no philosophical content at all.
Steady on, said the VeloDrone, it was your idea to tell them that anything could be considered philosophy as long as it had a bike in it.
Oh please! snapped Le Bon David. Don't tell me you don't understand irony either.
Yes, yes, of course I do, David, I'm just saying we shouldn't be surprised. Now look at this comment here. It's from a chap called Gaius Plinius Secundus. He says it's a very moving story, full of wisdom and nobility. He says he's going to recommend our magazine to all his friends.
Did you say Gaius Plinius Secundus, VeloDrone?
Yes.
The famous Pliny the Elder?
Why yes, I suppose so, David.
Here's a thought. What say we ask him to contribute an article? Now that would be something worth reading, I'll bet you a farthing.
Hee Hee! A penny farthing ! But yes it's time we took back control of our magazine. Submitting to blackmail is no way to guarantee quality.
It certainly isn't. One only has to remember the fake Stephen Hawking debacle. Alright. I'll get on to Pliny tonight.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Freud's Granddaughter's Bicycle
Oh look! said Pliny the Elder. Here's the latest edition of Velosophy! I wonder what it will be about today?
So do I, I said. Why don't you read it out to me?
Alright, said Pliny. I will. And he began to read:
Comrade Velosophers! The VeloDrone and I are pleased to bring you the second in a series of articles by the esteemed Professor Freud! He has once again produced something that we are sure will surprise and delight you. You may think it has little to do with philosophy. We beg you not to judge too hastily. We are of the opinion that philosophy encompasses nearly everything, especially if there is a bicycle in it. Please enjoy:
Hmmph! said Pliny. This sounds as if it might not be any good!
Go ahead and read it, I urged. We ought to trust the editors.
So Pliny read on:
Dear readers, I have a little tale to tell, about my granddaughter Sophie and her bicycle. I learned this story on reading her recently published book, 'Living in the shadow of the Freud family'. I had no idea about it at the time, which was in 1938, the year before my death, for I was not then living in Paris.
Sophie and her mother were living in Paris however. They had moved there from Austria which was no longer a safe place for Jews. Sophie was 14 years old , and attended the Lycee Jean de la Fontaine, in Passy, about 8 miles from their flat. She was supposed to catch a bus to school, but preferred to ride her bicycle, although her mother had forbidden it. She used her bus money to keep her bicycle safe in a garage while she was at school.
But soon, the Paris authorities introduced a bicycle tax. Every bicycle was to display a metal plaque costing 200 francs. Sophie had no way of getting 200 francs. She had no pocket money and didn't know the neighbours well at all. So she stole 200 francs from he mother's purse and bought the metal plaque and all was well until her mother confronted her about the missing money.
She asked Sophie if she had taken it. Sophie was afraid she was going to face a dreadful punishment, but she admitted that she had. To her surprise her mother did not even ask her why she had needed the money. She merely observed that next time she needed money she should ask for it. Sophie thought that perhaps her mother was remembering how hard it had been to get things from her husband, from whom she was separated.
Pliny stopped reading. He appeared to have a tear in his eye.
Oh, Pliny, I said. That was a lovely story. You liked it, didn't you?
I did, said he. There is much wisdom in it.
So do I, I said. Why don't you read it out to me?
Alright, said Pliny. I will. And he began to read:
Comrade Velosophers! The VeloDrone and I are pleased to bring you the second in a series of articles by the esteemed Professor Freud! He has once again produced something that we are sure will surprise and delight you. You may think it has little to do with philosophy. We beg you not to judge too hastily. We are of the opinion that philosophy encompasses nearly everything, especially if there is a bicycle in it. Please enjoy:
Hmmph! said Pliny. This sounds as if it might not be any good!
Go ahead and read it, I urged. We ought to trust the editors.
So Pliny read on:
Dear readers, I have a little tale to tell, about my granddaughter Sophie and her bicycle. I learned this story on reading her recently published book, 'Living in the shadow of the Freud family'. I had no idea about it at the time, which was in 1938, the year before my death, for I was not then living in Paris.
Sophie and her mother were living in Paris however. They had moved there from Austria which was no longer a safe place for Jews. Sophie was 14 years old , and attended the Lycee Jean de la Fontaine, in Passy, about 8 miles from their flat. She was supposed to catch a bus to school, but preferred to ride her bicycle, although her mother had forbidden it. She used her bus money to keep her bicycle safe in a garage while she was at school.
But soon, the Paris authorities introduced a bicycle tax. Every bicycle was to display a metal plaque costing 200 francs. Sophie had no way of getting 200 francs. She had no pocket money and didn't know the neighbours well at all. So she stole 200 francs from he mother's purse and bought the metal plaque and all was well until her mother confronted her about the missing money.
She asked Sophie if she had taken it. Sophie was afraid she was going to face a dreadful punishment, but she admitted that she had. To her surprise her mother did not even ask her why she had needed the money. She merely observed that next time she needed money she should ask for it. Sophie thought that perhaps her mother was remembering how hard it had been to get things from her husband, from whom she was separated.
Pliny stopped reading. He appeared to have a tear in his eye.
Oh, Pliny, I said. That was a lovely story. You liked it, didn't you?
I did, said he. There is much wisdom in it.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Crisp
Yes, Pliny was right. I was looking at the mirror from my own point of view. We all do that. But we don't always imagine we're a spider. Today I'm not going to imagine anything. I'm just going to describe how in this hot weather everything is crisp.
Not cold and crisp, dry and crisp.
I will choose a particular street as an example. It may be Verdun Street, which is across Magill Road and three down from where we live.
Once, a man on a bicycle stopped and asked me for Verdun Street. I'd lived here for years but at that time I didn't know where it was. It wouldn't have mattered but he'd asked if I was a local and I had said yes, so it was embarrassing that I sent him off towards the hills.
So, let us say it is Verdun Street. Verdun Street is lined with trees and some of them are jacarandas. The jacarandas are all afroth with purple saxaphone-shaped flowers which are already dropping in the heat. When they reach the pavement they shrivel and crisp up.
You walk on them and crackle like a king.
Not cold and crisp, dry and crisp.
I will choose a particular street as an example. It may be Verdun Street, which is across Magill Road and three down from where we live.
Once, a man on a bicycle stopped and asked me for Verdun Street. I'd lived here for years but at that time I didn't know where it was. It wouldn't have mattered but he'd asked if I was a local and I had said yes, so it was embarrassing that I sent him off towards the hills.
So, let us say it is Verdun Street. Verdun Street is lined with trees and some of them are jacarandas. The jacarandas are all afroth with purple saxaphone-shaped flowers which are already dropping in the heat. When they reach the pavement they shrivel and crisp up.
You walk on them and crackle like a king.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Arachno-Lit
It is questionable, said Pliny the Elder, as to whether the spider which lives behind your car mirror ever 'goes for a wander', as you put it. If it lives behind the mirror, it probably just comes out to check its web and then goes back in.
Therefore, he continued, the spider would be unlikely to become confused because of the mirror. It would emerge and see its web, which would not look like a double web from its point of view. It would then see its victim, should there be a victim, as a single entity. It would not see its own reflection at all.
Your reasoning is correct, Pliny, I replied. As far as it goes. But when the spider turns around to go back behind the mirror, having dealt with its victim, should there have been a victim, it would be then that it would be most likely to become confused. My goodness! It's a lot further home than I thought! it would be thinking. Do you not agree?
Yes, said Pliny, I do agree with that. But it is not what you were arguing yesterday.
No, it isn't, I conceded. But it is interesting how much we can learn from spiders and their behaviour. There are many cultural depictions of spiders in literature, for example.
I suppose you are referring to the spider of Robert the Bruce, said Pliny, or the famous Greek spider princess Arachne. Or perhaps the African spider god Anansi, the well-known comic book character Spider Man, or the spider heroine in Charlotte's Web. Or possibly you refer to Shelob, in Lord of the Rings, Aragog in the Harry Potter story, or the famous 'big spider' in Little Miss Muffett? Or that one called Incy-Wincy?
Well, Pliny, you are very well-versed in arachno-lit! But no, I had in mind my favourite reference to a spider in all of literature, which is from Roadkill by Kinky Friedman.
Roadkill! You surprise me!
Aha! but wait till I tell you what it is. I admire it very much. Kinky is in his office thinking about whether he will take on a case. He is a private detective. He looks up at a framed photograph of Father Damien on his wall. This is the Father Damien who spent 16 years working in a leper colony. Kinky sees a spider making its way slowly across the glass of the photo frame, which reflects the light from the street outside his office. Sometimes I am like Father Damien, he thinks to himself, and sometimes I am more like that spider.
Is that it? asked Pliny.
Yes, it's quite profound, don't you think?
No, I don't, said Pliny. But perhaps it has lost something in the telling.
Therefore, he continued, the spider would be unlikely to become confused because of the mirror. It would emerge and see its web, which would not look like a double web from its point of view. It would then see its victim, should there be a victim, as a single entity. It would not see its own reflection at all.
Your reasoning is correct, Pliny, I replied. As far as it goes. But when the spider turns around to go back behind the mirror, having dealt with its victim, should there have been a victim, it would be then that it would be most likely to become confused. My goodness! It's a lot further home than I thought! it would be thinking. Do you not agree?
Yes, said Pliny, I do agree with that. But it is not what you were arguing yesterday.
No, it isn't, I conceded. But it is interesting how much we can learn from spiders and their behaviour. There are many cultural depictions of spiders in literature, for example.
I suppose you are referring to the spider of Robert the Bruce, said Pliny, or the famous Greek spider princess Arachne. Or perhaps the African spider god Anansi, the well-known comic book character Spider Man, or the spider heroine in Charlotte's Web. Or possibly you refer to Shelob, in Lord of the Rings, Aragog in the Harry Potter story, or the famous 'big spider' in Little Miss Muffett? Or that one called Incy-Wincy?
Well, Pliny, you are very well-versed in arachno-lit! But no, I had in mind my favourite reference to a spider in all of literature, which is from Roadkill by Kinky Friedman.
Roadkill! You surprise me!
Aha! but wait till I tell you what it is. I admire it very much. Kinky is in his office thinking about whether he will take on a case. He is a private detective. He looks up at a framed photograph of Father Damien on his wall. This is the Father Damien who spent 16 years working in a leper colony. Kinky sees a spider making its way slowly across the glass of the photo frame, which reflects the light from the street outside his office. Sometimes I am like Father Damien, he thinks to himself, and sometimes I am more like that spider.
Is that it? asked Pliny.
Yes, it's quite profound, don't you think?
No, I don't, said Pliny. But perhaps it has lost something in the telling.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Spiders Flies Split Bugs and Mirrors
This is the weather for spiders and bugs and flies to come inside. This is the weather for putting off housework.
Therefore the carpet is littered with dead species, some in two parts.
The only way to be sure they are dead is to split them. This can be done by means of the human foot. It is advisable however for the foot to be clad in hard footwear.
After several passes of the footwear over the bug, it will split in two parts, or three. You can leave them in situ. Over time they will shrink into more acceptable deadbug pieces which look like cracked pepper. No one objects to cracked pepper on the carpet, and the pieces can stay there until the hot spell is over.
Of course you can't leave split flies hanging about. Little maggots might come out.
Spiders present another problem. But come to think of it I haven't seen one inside for ages. Except the daddy longlegs in the bathroom several weeks ago. I soon disposed of him and all the legs I could find.
Spiders are tricky. They hide. There is one living behind the outside mirror on the passenger side of our car. I know because there's a web over the mirror. It jiggles in the wind as we drive. It looks very dense because of the mirror. I wonder if this confuses the spider, especially as it's one of those mirrors that makes objects appear further away than they are.
Yes, this must confuse the spider. Coming back from a wander, it sees a double web, a double victim, and a tiny spider self. Ha!
Therefore the carpet is littered with dead species, some in two parts.
The only way to be sure they are dead is to split them. This can be done by means of the human foot. It is advisable however for the foot to be clad in hard footwear.
After several passes of the footwear over the bug, it will split in two parts, or three. You can leave them in situ. Over time they will shrink into more acceptable deadbug pieces which look like cracked pepper. No one objects to cracked pepper on the carpet, and the pieces can stay there until the hot spell is over.
Of course you can't leave split flies hanging about. Little maggots might come out.
Spiders present another problem. But come to think of it I haven't seen one inside for ages. Except the daddy longlegs in the bathroom several weeks ago. I soon disposed of him and all the legs I could find.
Spiders are tricky. They hide. There is one living behind the outside mirror on the passenger side of our car. I know because there's a web over the mirror. It jiggles in the wind as we drive. It looks very dense because of the mirror. I wonder if this confuses the spider, especially as it's one of those mirrors that makes objects appear further away than they are.
Yes, this must confuse the spider. Coming back from a wander, it sees a double web, a double victim, and a tiny spider self. Ha!
Friday, November 13, 2009
At the Interface
Another hot day. We went to Semaphore. We thought we might go in the water, and wore our swimming things just in case.
The sand was hot. We took off our shoes. How then had we known that the sand was hot? They were not proper shoes.
The sea was tepid and green. Fat people bobbed in the shallows. Three ladies and a man in a stockman's hat. Nine seagulls flew southwards over their heads. Eleven terns flew north. Perhaps I have remembered this wrong.
The terns looked like seagulls wearing unconvincing black hairpieces. Thirty nine of them stood on the shore. Something was afoot.
We walked towards the Semaphore jetty, in the water up to our knees. The middle of the jetty was missing. This was new. Boys were jumping off at the gap, and clambering up the other side. We could see them, in the distance.
Two yachts, on the near horizon, with cream and grey sails like moths' wings, seemed to touch one another lightly.
I looked down at the water and was shocked to see lines of Japanese calligraphy. It was seaweed, tiny brown and black pieces like brushstrokes, floating on the surface of the water. They said, if I read them correctly: Here is the interface, here, and here, and here.
We took the plunge. Immersed ourselves in the sea. It was cold, because our skin was hot. We gasped. And wallowed. Only the interface matters.
I flapped my hands under the water which moved like jelly.
The sand was hot. We took off our shoes. How then had we known that the sand was hot? They were not proper shoes.
The sea was tepid and green. Fat people bobbed in the shallows. Three ladies and a man in a stockman's hat. Nine seagulls flew southwards over their heads. Eleven terns flew north. Perhaps I have remembered this wrong.
The terns looked like seagulls wearing unconvincing black hairpieces. Thirty nine of them stood on the shore. Something was afoot.
We walked towards the Semaphore jetty, in the water up to our knees. The middle of the jetty was missing. This was new. Boys were jumping off at the gap, and clambering up the other side. We could see them, in the distance.
Two yachts, on the near horizon, with cream and grey sails like moths' wings, seemed to touch one another lightly.
I looked down at the water and was shocked to see lines of Japanese calligraphy. It was seaweed, tiny brown and black pieces like brushstrokes, floating on the surface of the water. They said, if I read them correctly: Here is the interface, here, and here, and here.
We took the plunge. Immersed ourselves in the sea. It was cold, because our skin was hot. We gasped. And wallowed. Only the interface matters.
I flapped my hands under the water which moved like jelly.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
How To Live
How to live. The main subject of philosophy. Knowing how to live is making right choices.
So how did I choose to live today?
It was very hot. I had decided to catch the bus into town. I walked out of the front door. I walked past the bus stop. I didn't want to catch a bus and use my seniors card. After twenty minutes of hotness I chose to stop being a fool.
I met my mum. We had lunch. She wanted a salad, but I wanted sushi. I went to the sushi bar and stood in the queue. Suddenly the queue melted away and I had to choose quickly. I chose the Mixed Pack, without knowing what it contained.
The concert was the last of the series for the year. It was a competition between 2 clarinets, a french horn and a soprano. We thought the soprano would win. It didn't matter what we thought; we weren't the judges. The first of the 2 clarinets won. She had played Stockhausen.
After the competition it was time for refreshments in the foyer. There were 10 plastic cups with 2 cm of champagne in them, and one that was over half full. I chose that one. There were chicken nuggets, sandwiches and vegetarian fritata on offer as well. I took one nugget, and one fritata.
Then, I chose to have an orange juice, for my second drink.
Now it was shopping time. We went to the Oxfam shop and looked at knicknacks, with an eye to Xmas. I thought of buying, but chose not to buy: a paper bowl, a beaded brooch, a wooden cockerel, a jewelled box and a ceramic frog. I chose to buy a painted leather ring. But not before trying on at least ten different ones and dropping one on the floor.
Next I go to the central market. Now I am with someone else. He has seen some cheap and tasty mulloway. He knows it is tasty because he was offered a sample. We decide to buy a large fillet of mulloway. We choose the fillet we will ask for, then someone whips the tray away, to fill it up. We buy a fillet anyway, but we have no idea which one we've got.
Right. So now I'm going to examine my list of actions.
Okay, I'm thinking.... hmmmm ..... oh dear.... but no, not too bad...... it's not very easy, this.
Voice of God: Give yourself a score out of ten!!
Me: Oh what a good idea, thank you God.
Voice of God: Well then?
Me: What?
God; What's your score?
Me: Eight out of ten.
God: I knew it. But I would be more inclined to give you six.
Me: Lucky you're not in charge!
So how did I choose to live today?
It was very hot. I had decided to catch the bus into town. I walked out of the front door. I walked past the bus stop. I didn't want to catch a bus and use my seniors card. After twenty minutes of hotness I chose to stop being a fool.
I met my mum. We had lunch. She wanted a salad, but I wanted sushi. I went to the sushi bar and stood in the queue. Suddenly the queue melted away and I had to choose quickly. I chose the Mixed Pack, without knowing what it contained.
The concert was the last of the series for the year. It was a competition between 2 clarinets, a french horn and a soprano. We thought the soprano would win. It didn't matter what we thought; we weren't the judges. The first of the 2 clarinets won. She had played Stockhausen.
After the competition it was time for refreshments in the foyer. There were 10 plastic cups with 2 cm of champagne in them, and one that was over half full. I chose that one. There were chicken nuggets, sandwiches and vegetarian fritata on offer as well. I took one nugget, and one fritata.
Then, I chose to have an orange juice, for my second drink.
Now it was shopping time. We went to the Oxfam shop and looked at knicknacks, with an eye to Xmas. I thought of buying, but chose not to buy: a paper bowl, a beaded brooch, a wooden cockerel, a jewelled box and a ceramic frog. I chose to buy a painted leather ring. But not before trying on at least ten different ones and dropping one on the floor.
Next I go to the central market. Now I am with someone else. He has seen some cheap and tasty mulloway. He knows it is tasty because he was offered a sample. We decide to buy a large fillet of mulloway. We choose the fillet we will ask for, then someone whips the tray away, to fill it up. We buy a fillet anyway, but we have no idea which one we've got.
Right. So now I'm going to examine my list of actions.
Okay, I'm thinking.... hmmmm ..... oh dear.... but no, not too bad...... it's not very easy, this.
Voice of God: Give yourself a score out of ten!!
Me: Oh what a good idea, thank you God.
Voice of God: Well then?
Me: What?
God; What's your score?
Me: Eight out of ten.
God: I knew it. But I would be more inclined to give you six.
Me: Lucky you're not in charge!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Resilience Continued
And, in the course of the lecture, did you learn how this resilient Australia is being developed? enquired Pliny the Elder, looking somewhat sceptical.
It wasn't a lecture, I replied. It was a panel discussion.
Aha! said Pliny. A panel discussion. Then would it be true to say that you actually learned very little?
Certainly not, I said, although I know what you mean. It was a multidisciplinary discussion. There were three panelists, one from Engineering Innovation in Defence and Systems, one from the School of Law, and one from Education, Arts and Social Science.
Say no more, said Pliny.
No wait, I said. You asked me.
Alright, said Pliny, go on.
Well, first they set up a scenario. It was December 15th 2010. Terrorists had just blown up the Sydney Harbour Bridge, and poisoned Sydney's water supply. Melbourne and Brisbane's water supplies were threatened as well. And at the same time lots of boat people were on their way, and so on and so on. The panellists were supposed to address these issues from the point of view of their own discipline
And what did they say?
The engineer said that engineers were the best people to deal with such things and that they would do so and that we needn't worry too much about that. The lawyer said he was most unhappy that in dealing with the terrorist threat we have allowed our rights to be eroded to such a degree that any soldier can shoot us if he thinks that we might be one.
Good gracious! said Pliny. Is that true?
Apparently, I said. And the social scientist said that we were culturally well equipped to deal with events such as these.
But did they say what we might expect to happen in the event of these dreadful disasters? asked Pliny. What would they do first on learning that the water supply was poisoned? And would they inform the boat people so that they might turn around before it was too late?
No, inexplicably, they only spoke in general terms, and platitudes.
Dear me, said Pliny. It was lucky there were nibbles and wine to compensate at the end. Did you have an opportunity to speak with any of the panellists?
Yes, the social scientist. I asked him what he thought would happen immediately after it was learned the water supply had been poisoned.
And what did he say?
He said what would happen was that a lot of people would die.
It wasn't a lecture, I replied. It was a panel discussion.
Aha! said Pliny. A panel discussion. Then would it be true to say that you actually learned very little?
Certainly not, I said, although I know what you mean. It was a multidisciplinary discussion. There were three panelists, one from Engineering Innovation in Defence and Systems, one from the School of Law, and one from Education, Arts and Social Science.
Say no more, said Pliny.
No wait, I said. You asked me.
Alright, said Pliny, go on.
Well, first they set up a scenario. It was December 15th 2010. Terrorists had just blown up the Sydney Harbour Bridge, and poisoned Sydney's water supply. Melbourne and Brisbane's water supplies were threatened as well. And at the same time lots of boat people were on their way, and so on and so on. The panellists were supposed to address these issues from the point of view of their own discipline
And what did they say?
The engineer said that engineers were the best people to deal with such things and that they would do so and that we needn't worry too much about that. The lawyer said he was most unhappy that in dealing with the terrorist threat we have allowed our rights to be eroded to such a degree that any soldier can shoot us if he thinks that we might be one.
Good gracious! said Pliny. Is that true?
Apparently, I said. And the social scientist said that we were culturally well equipped to deal with events such as these.
But did they say what we might expect to happen in the event of these dreadful disasters? asked Pliny. What would they do first on learning that the water supply was poisoned? And would they inform the boat people so that they might turn around before it was too late?
No, inexplicably, they only spoke in general terms, and platitudes.
Dear me, said Pliny. It was lucky there were nibbles and wine to compensate at the end. Did you have an opportunity to speak with any of the panellists?
Yes, the social scientist. I asked him what he thought would happen immediately after it was learned the water supply had been poisoned.
And what did he say?
He said what would happen was that a lot of people would die.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Resilience
It's very hot, said Pliny the Elder, fanning himself with a piece of paper.
Yes it is, I agreed. Thirty eight degrees. Thanks to global warming. Would you like an iced coffee?
No thankyou. A glass of water will suffice. And I don't feel very hungry either. What are we having for dinner? Something cold I hope?
Mince, I said. You're welcome to have it cold, but personally I think that would be repulsive.
True, said Pliny. But it would be better than what I had last night.
What was that? I asked.
Nothing, he replied.
Why, aren't you very well? I enquired.
I'm perfectly well, but you were not home at dinner time last night and there was nothing to eat and so I had nothing.
Oh dear, I'm sorry. We went to a lecture in the city. We had nibbles and drinks afterwards.
Oh. Was it nice?
Very nice. Sushi, crumbed prawns, smoked salmon, cheese triangles, spring rolls, wine. And there was such a lot of it. Hardly anybody came, because of the heat. The caterer looked very disappointed. I think he was worried he wouldn't get paid.
What a shame. What was the topic of the lecture?
Resilience. Developing a Resilient Australia in an Age of Uncertainty.
There is a degree of irony in that, said Pliny.
There is, I agreed.
Yes it is, I agreed. Thirty eight degrees. Thanks to global warming. Would you like an iced coffee?
No thankyou. A glass of water will suffice. And I don't feel very hungry either. What are we having for dinner? Something cold I hope?
Mince, I said. You're welcome to have it cold, but personally I think that would be repulsive.
True, said Pliny. But it would be better than what I had last night.
What was that? I asked.
Nothing, he replied.
Why, aren't you very well? I enquired.
I'm perfectly well, but you were not home at dinner time last night and there was nothing to eat and so I had nothing.
Oh dear, I'm sorry. We went to a lecture in the city. We had nibbles and drinks afterwards.
Oh. Was it nice?
Very nice. Sushi, crumbed prawns, smoked salmon, cheese triangles, spring rolls, wine. And there was such a lot of it. Hardly anybody came, because of the heat. The caterer looked very disappointed. I think he was worried he wouldn't get paid.
What a shame. What was the topic of the lecture?
Resilience. Developing a Resilient Australia in an Age of Uncertainty.
There is a degree of irony in that, said Pliny.
There is, I agreed.
Monday, November 9, 2009
On Stephen Hawking's Wall
10 Comments:
Even I, the divine Dali, have never come up with a concept as slippery as your square root of B, where B may be B, or something else that starts with B ! Brilliantissimo, my astrophysical friend! Contact me if you wish to change the colours of the NanoStrings. I have many fine paints in my paintbox. Salvador Dali.
Congratulations on an interesting article Stephen! Have you looked at lower case b as a possible root? bxb=B. There are a lot more bs than Bs in the universe. Bill Bailey.
Stephen! It pains me to see that you collude with the rest of the world in attributing the 'bicycle-dream/going on a journey' connection to me. Professor Sigmund Freud.
The square root of B. Very existentialist! I like it. Simone De Beauvoir ( The Beaver ) xxx
Square root of Bicycle is wheel! Square root of Bang is Omm! Square root of Backwardness is Nirvana! Just a few random thoughts I had. Cheers! The Buddha.
We love you Stephen! You rock! Babar, Barbie, Bob the Builder, Britney, Bratx xxxxx
Dear Mr Hawking, I don't think your article made very much sense at all. Alice.
I think this magazine should only publish nice stories, such as the one my grandfather has written about me and my bicycle. We are still waiting to see it in print. Who wants to know about the square root of B? Sophie Freud.
Stephen! You seem to be turning into a prankster. Be squared, be very squared! LOL. Albert Einstein.
I do not appreciate being made into a figure of fun, even in an inconsequential magazine such as this. You will shortly be hearing from my lawyers. Real Stephen Hawking.
Even I, the divine Dali, have never come up with a concept as slippery as your square root of B, where B may be B, or something else that starts with B ! Brilliantissimo, my astrophysical friend! Contact me if you wish to change the colours of the NanoStrings. I have many fine paints in my paintbox. Salvador Dali.
Congratulations on an interesting article Stephen! Have you looked at lower case b as a possible root? bxb=B. There are a lot more bs than Bs in the universe. Bill Bailey.
Stephen! It pains me to see that you collude with the rest of the world in attributing the 'bicycle-dream/going on a journey' connection to me. Professor Sigmund Freud.
The square root of B. Very existentialist! I like it. Simone De Beauvoir ( The Beaver ) xxx
Square root of Bicycle is wheel! Square root of Bang is Omm! Square root of Backwardness is Nirvana! Just a few random thoughts I had. Cheers! The Buddha.
We love you Stephen! You rock! Babar, Barbie, Bob the Builder, Britney, Bratx xxxxx
Dear Mr Hawking, I don't think your article made very much sense at all. Alice.
I think this magazine should only publish nice stories, such as the one my grandfather has written about me and my bicycle. We are still waiting to see it in print. Who wants to know about the square root of B? Sophie Freud.
Stephen! You seem to be turning into a prankster. Be squared, be very squared! LOL. Albert Einstein.
I do not appreciate being made into a figure of fun, even in an inconsequential magazine such as this. You will shortly be hearing from my lawyers. Real Stephen Hawking.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Square Root of B
The office of the editors of Velosophy is once again a scene of turmoil and indecision.
Le Bon David: That Stephen Hawking is a CLOWN! The square root of B indeed! Square root of Balderdash more likely!
The VeloDrone: We'll be a laughing stock if we print it.
Le Bon David: What do you mean if ?
The VeloDrone: Well, we could always hold it back.
Le Bon David: No it's too late for that, I signed off on it this morning.
The VeloDrone: What! Had you read it?
Le Bon David: Not properly. I just assumed Stephen Hawking would write something tedious and dull.
The VeloDrone: And instead he's introduced some sort of vulgar competition! I'm surprised he didn't offer a prize. A ROOT-B tee shirt to the winner!
Le Bon David: You know, that's not a bad idea. Maybe we should offer a prize ourselves. Show that it was just a bit of light-hearted fun.
The VeloDrone: David, David! Get a grip! We are philosophers.
Le Bon David: Yes, you're right. And our readers are philosophers as well.
The VeloDrone: Exactly. They won't see the funny side at all.
Le Bon David: That Stephen Hawking is a CLOWN! The square root of B indeed! Square root of Balderdash more likely!
The VeloDrone: We'll be a laughing stock if we print it.
Le Bon David: What do you mean if ?
The VeloDrone: Well, we could always hold it back.
Le Bon David: No it's too late for that, I signed off on it this morning.
The VeloDrone: What! Had you read it?
Le Bon David: Not properly. I just assumed Stephen Hawking would write something tedious and dull.
The VeloDrone: And instead he's introduced some sort of vulgar competition! I'm surprised he didn't offer a prize. A ROOT-B tee shirt to the winner!
Le Bon David: You know, that's not a bad idea. Maybe we should offer a prize ourselves. Show that it was just a bit of light-hearted fun.
The VeloDrone: David, David! Get a grip! We are philosophers.
Le Bon David: Yes, you're right. And our readers are philosophers as well.
The VeloDrone: Exactly. They won't see the funny side at all.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Stephen Hawking's Backwardness Bicycle
Readers, allow me to introduce myself. I am Stephen Hawking. It is an honour to have been asked by the editors of Velosophy to submit an article on the latest research into the use of bicycles in astrophysics.
I have long been interested in bicycles. I have often dreamed of riding one, but alas that is not to be. However, if you will excuse a jocular reference to a pet theory of Professor Sigmund Freud, I have been on a journey.
It is a journey into astrophysics and the secrets of Black Holes. Or more correctly, the secret of Black Holes, for current theory suggests that there is only one.
As you know, we scientists have come to many dead ends in this field. We are at one now, with the No Hair Theorem and the Black Hole Information Paradox.
In a nutshell, the No Hair Theorem attests that we can observe only three properties of Black Holes: their mass, their charge and their angular momentum. All other information disappears below the Black Hole horizon. Therefore all Black Holes are identical as far as we can see. That is, they have no other observable properties; in other words, No Hair! Quite comical, I'm sure you will agree.
I do not wish to bore my readers. I shall now come to the point. I have read with much interest Salvador Dali's brilliant article referring to his NanoString Bicycle. I too have been thinking along the lines of using bicycles as a way of discovering more about the entropy of Black Holes.
In particular I am interested in following up the String. That most intriguing green, blue and violet String. For the String represents a way of coming back from inside the hole. I am in the process of developing an equation to represent this backward movement. It involves finding the square root of B.
The square root of B ? you ask. Fascinating, but what is B ?
Readers, here is the sticking place. We are looking for suggestions. For as yet we do not know whether it is Bang, or Bicycle, or Backwardness, or, as some suggest, itself, the letter B. This last has some credibility, believe it or not. Astrophysics is agreed by many astrophysicists in their more reflective moments to be reliant on semantics, after all.
So dear cycling philosophers, let me know your ideas. The scientific world is always open to input from people like you.
I have long been interested in bicycles. I have often dreamed of riding one, but alas that is not to be. However, if you will excuse a jocular reference to a pet theory of Professor Sigmund Freud, I have been on a journey.
It is a journey into astrophysics and the secrets of Black Holes. Or more correctly, the secret of Black Holes, for current theory suggests that there is only one.
As you know, we scientists have come to many dead ends in this field. We are at one now, with the No Hair Theorem and the Black Hole Information Paradox.
In a nutshell, the No Hair Theorem attests that we can observe only three properties of Black Holes: their mass, their charge and their angular momentum. All other information disappears below the Black Hole horizon. Therefore all Black Holes are identical as far as we can see. That is, they have no other observable properties; in other words, No Hair! Quite comical, I'm sure you will agree.
I do not wish to bore my readers. I shall now come to the point. I have read with much interest Salvador Dali's brilliant article referring to his NanoString Bicycle. I too have been thinking along the lines of using bicycles as a way of discovering more about the entropy of Black Holes.
In particular I am interested in following up the String. That most intriguing green, blue and violet String. For the String represents a way of coming back from inside the hole. I am in the process of developing an equation to represent this backward movement. It involves finding the square root of B.
The square root of B ? you ask. Fascinating, but what is B ?
Readers, here is the sticking place. We are looking for suggestions. For as yet we do not know whether it is Bang, or Bicycle, or Backwardness, or, as some suggest, itself, the letter B. This last has some credibility, believe it or not. Astrophysics is agreed by many astrophysicists in their more reflective moments to be reliant on semantics, after all.
So dear cycling philosophers, let me know your ideas. The scientific world is always open to input from people like you.
Tiger Lily Swallows the Sea
Tiger Lily loves Port Noarlunga,
she especially loves it today.
She walks up Clare Street under blue trees and sky
till it's laid out as if on a tray.
She swallows the air, which is draftful and cool
And eats up the lifesavers' tent.
She devours the reef and the jetty
and the steps that are made of cement.
Tiger Lily loves Port Noarlunga
She especially loves it today.
She swallows the sea which is wine green and blue
She swallows the sand and the seaweed too.
She wishes to swallow it all down inside her
if only her tummy were bigger and wider.
Tiger Lily loves Port Noarlunga
She especially loves it today.
She swallows the children
She swallows a ball,
She swallows the cliffs that are crunchy and tall,
She wishes that she could just swallow it all
and keep it forever this way.
Tiger Lily loves Port Noarlunga
She especially loves it today.
She thinks if she could
drink the tide in full flood
and take in the sky
through the gap in her eye,
if she could just bite
at the dog on the right
which is tied to a board
and is being ignored
then this will have been a good day
she especially loves it today.
She walks up Clare Street under blue trees and sky
till it's laid out as if on a tray.
She swallows the air, which is draftful and cool
And eats up the lifesavers' tent.
She devours the reef and the jetty
and the steps that are made of cement.
Tiger Lily loves Port Noarlunga
She especially loves it today.
She swallows the sea which is wine green and blue
She swallows the sand and the seaweed too.
She wishes to swallow it all down inside her
if only her tummy were bigger and wider.
Tiger Lily loves Port Noarlunga
She especially loves it today.
She swallows the children
She swallows a ball,
She swallows the cliffs that are crunchy and tall,
She wishes that she could just swallow it all
and keep it forever this way.
Tiger Lily loves Port Noarlunga
She especially loves it today.
She thinks if she could
drink the tide in full flood
and take in the sky
through the gap in her eye,
if she could just bite
at the dog on the right
which is tied to a board
and is being ignored
then this will have been a good day
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Too Specific Exorcism No Good
An exorcism is always pronounced at the beginning of the lunch hour concerts:
Ladies and gentlemen may I ask you all to please turn off your mobile phones.
It works, for mobile phones, but it's far too specific, if you ask me. Take today for instance. Marija Bajalica was playing Haydn's Piano Sonata No 38 in F on the piano. How hard would it have been to have added this exorcism before she began:
In the name of the father the son and the holy ghost don't hum please, amen.
Because we were plagued during the entire first movement by a hummer.
And another even stranger spirit had entered the hall untroubled by an exorcism. I saw evidence of this spirit as Marija played Schumann's Etudes Symphoniques. These are a series of variations each more moody than the last, except for the last.
I was watching the hands of Marija, which were long and catlike. I was sad because I couldn't see the tips of her fingers, due to the angle at which I was sitting.
I looked idly down at the floor under the seat of the man in front of me. I saw a square of light, illuminating stiletto marks in the wood, and 2 faint lines where the floorboards joined. Suddenly there appeared in the lower half of the square of light, as though performing on a tiny stage, the shadows of the tips of 3 fingers dancing rhythmically to Marija's etude.
What could they have been but the spirits of Marija's hidden fingers, and how easily could their escape have been prevented?
In the name of the father son and holy ghost keep your hands to yourselves amen.
Ladies and gentlemen may I ask you all to please turn off your mobile phones.
It works, for mobile phones, but it's far too specific, if you ask me. Take today for instance. Marija Bajalica was playing Haydn's Piano Sonata No 38 in F on the piano. How hard would it have been to have added this exorcism before she began:
In the name of the father the son and the holy ghost don't hum please, amen.
Because we were plagued during the entire first movement by a hummer.
And another even stranger spirit had entered the hall untroubled by an exorcism. I saw evidence of this spirit as Marija played Schumann's Etudes Symphoniques. These are a series of variations each more moody than the last, except for the last.
I was watching the hands of Marija, which were long and catlike. I was sad because I couldn't see the tips of her fingers, due to the angle at which I was sitting.
I looked idly down at the floor under the seat of the man in front of me. I saw a square of light, illuminating stiletto marks in the wood, and 2 faint lines where the floorboards joined. Suddenly there appeared in the lower half of the square of light, as though performing on a tiny stage, the shadows of the tips of 3 fingers dancing rhythmically to Marija's etude.
What could they have been but the spirits of Marija's hidden fingers, and how easily could their escape have been prevented?
In the name of the father son and holy ghost keep your hands to yourselves amen.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Short Exorcisms
So, I was wondering, what was the exorcism that was printed in the children's hornbooks? And I googled up some pictures and discovered it was this: In the name of the father and the son and the holy ghost amen.
And I thought, that's not an exorcism. That's just shorthand for an exorcism. And then I remembered last night.
We went to the Annual Hawke Lecture in the Adelaide Town Hall. Professor Ross Garnaut was to lecture on Climate Change. But before the lecture could begin there was an exorcism to perform.
We were exhorted to stand up. We stood up. The governor, his wife and entourage marched with admirable speed through the grand doorway down the central aisle to their positions in the front row. A recording of The Governor's Salute was played.
The Governor's Salute is like two fingers up. The first bar of the national anthem and the last. The effect of this upon the audience is a kind of bafflement, mingled with relief.
And I thought, that's not an exorcism. That's just shorthand for an exorcism. And then I remembered last night.
We went to the Annual Hawke Lecture in the Adelaide Town Hall. Professor Ross Garnaut was to lecture on Climate Change. But before the lecture could begin there was an exorcism to perform.
We were exhorted to stand up. We stood up. The governor, his wife and entourage marched with admirable speed through the grand doorway down the central aisle to their positions in the front row. A recording of The Governor's Salute was played.
The Governor's Salute is like two fingers up. The first bar of the national anthem and the last. The effect of this upon the audience is a kind of bafflement, mingled with relief.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
& Ampersand
Yes Pliny, but aren't all transformations unlikely? Nevertheless, I know that this is true.
And how, pray, do you know that it is true?
Because, Pliny, I read it , not in Wikipedia but in Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.
Perhaps, then, it was a fable.
No, it is a phrase, which was found in the old hornbooks, I said primly. The character was added after the 26 letters of the alphabet, and was called ampersand as a corruption of 'and per se and'. The ampersand itself is an adaptation of 'et', which as you know means 'and' in Latin.
Nonsense, said Pliny. How do you get from 'et' to that squiggle?
You don't have to. You only need to get from the squiggle back to 'et'.
A good point. And what may I ask is a hornbook?
It's a thin board with a handle, as a backing to a sheet of vellum, and covered by a thin piece of transparent horn. Medieval schoolchildren used them for their lessons.
How delightful, said Pliny. Was anything else written in them?
Numbers, the Lords Prayer, and an exorcism.
Basic, and exemplary, said Pliny.
And how, pray, do you know that it is true?
Because, Pliny, I read it , not in Wikipedia but in Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.
Perhaps, then, it was a fable.
No, it is a phrase, which was found in the old hornbooks, I said primly. The character was added after the 26 letters of the alphabet, and was called ampersand as a corruption of 'and per se and'. The ampersand itself is an adaptation of 'et', which as you know means 'and' in Latin.
Nonsense, said Pliny. How do you get from 'et' to that squiggle?
You don't have to. You only need to get from the squiggle back to 'et'.
A good point. And what may I ask is a hornbook?
It's a thin board with a handle, as a backing to a sheet of vellum, and covered by a thin piece of transparent horn. Medieval schoolchildren used them for their lessons.
How delightful, said Pliny. Was anything else written in them?
Numbers, the Lords Prayer, and an exorcism.
Basic, and exemplary, said Pliny.
Monday, November 2, 2009
And per se and
I read your blog yesterday, said Pliny the Elder.
And? I said
And, he said, I wondered about three things.
What were they?
Firstly, did the pearl simply emerge from your leg one day, or was it a transformation?
I believe it was a transformation, Pliny. Many years earlier I had fallen down when playing netball at school, and scraped my leg. I believe that pearl was formed in the manner that an oyster forms a pearl, around an irritation, in this case a tiny piece of grit or stone.
And how did it emerge?
It popped out fifteen years later, with a little help from me.
O marvellous! And secondly what happened to the Grandma?
I don't know, but I wondered if the event had been a scattering.
Surely not. The Grandma was still living, after all.
And thirdly?
Thirdly, what is the meaning of ampersand?
But Pliny, don't you know? It means a sign that means 'and'. It derives from Latin, so I thought you'd know. AND PER SE AND.
That is a transformation as unlikely as the rest.
And? I said
And, he said, I wondered about three things.
What were they?
Firstly, did the pearl simply emerge from your leg one day, or was it a transformation?
I believe it was a transformation, Pliny. Many years earlier I had fallen down when playing netball at school, and scraped my leg. I believe that pearl was formed in the manner that an oyster forms a pearl, around an irritation, in this case a tiny piece of grit or stone.
And how did it emerge?
It popped out fifteen years later, with a little help from me.
O marvellous! And secondly what happened to the Grandma?
I don't know, but I wondered if the event had been a scattering.
Surely not. The Grandma was still living, after all.
And thirdly?
Thirdly, what is the meaning of ampersand?
But Pliny, don't you know? It means a sign that means 'and'. It derives from Latin, so I thought you'd know. AND PER SE AND.
That is a transformation as unlikely as the rest.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Sand; Ampersand; Pearl
1. Sand.
We went to the beach twice on the weekend. On Saturday we went to Tennyson. The sand was white and soft and hot. I took off my shoes. The sand was already inside.
The sand was broken and in disarray. A horse had galloped over it. There is a special way of telling that. It is by the marks of the horse's shoes.
The sand was ugly. It looked as though a battle had been fought there. Smashed and bashed.
Heaps of seaweed had fetched up on the sand at regular intervals. Each heap looked like something. A lobster, a duck, a fish, a giant bee, laid flat out.
Under the water the sand was squelchy and sucked at our feet.
2. Ampersand.
On Sunday we were at Brighton. It was a very hot afternoon. The tide was coming in; there was not much sand to stand on, near the rocks north of the jetty.
A party of people stood between the rocks and the sea at the end of a ramp. They looked peculiar. They stood in an informal arrow formation. At the apex, an old lady in a wheelchair, shaded by a yellow and brown fringed parasol. We thought it might be a wedding. A funny wedding.
We went down the steps to the beach south of the jetty. Here there was plenty of sand. The sand was soft and white and hot. I took off my shoes but the sand was already inside.
We finished our walk. I put on my shoes. It was half past four.
Grandma, the wheelchair and parasol had gone. The rest of the party were still there, laughing. I knew that it wasn't a wedding.
At eight thirty we were driving home in the car. I was aware of the sand. The irritating sand. I thought that when I got home there might be pearls between my toes, although toes are not oysters.
3. Pearl.
That is not to say the human body is incapable of producing a pearl. I know that it is. Once, one came out of my leg. To be truthful it wasn't really a pearl. More like a perfectly round tiny grey stone.
Had it been a real pearl, I'd have kept it.
We went to the beach twice on the weekend. On Saturday we went to Tennyson. The sand was white and soft and hot. I took off my shoes. The sand was already inside.
The sand was broken and in disarray. A horse had galloped over it. There is a special way of telling that. It is by the marks of the horse's shoes.
The sand was ugly. It looked as though a battle had been fought there. Smashed and bashed.
Heaps of seaweed had fetched up on the sand at regular intervals. Each heap looked like something. A lobster, a duck, a fish, a giant bee, laid flat out.
Under the water the sand was squelchy and sucked at our feet.
2. Ampersand.
On Sunday we were at Brighton. It was a very hot afternoon. The tide was coming in; there was not much sand to stand on, near the rocks north of the jetty.
A party of people stood between the rocks and the sea at the end of a ramp. They looked peculiar. They stood in an informal arrow formation. At the apex, an old lady in a wheelchair, shaded by a yellow and brown fringed parasol. We thought it might be a wedding. A funny wedding.
We went down the steps to the beach south of the jetty. Here there was plenty of sand. The sand was soft and white and hot. I took off my shoes but the sand was already inside.
We finished our walk. I put on my shoes. It was half past four.
Grandma, the wheelchair and parasol had gone. The rest of the party were still there, laughing. I knew that it wasn't a wedding.
At eight thirty we were driving home in the car. I was aware of the sand. The irritating sand. I thought that when I got home there might be pearls between my toes, although toes are not oysters.
3. Pearl.
That is not to say the human body is incapable of producing a pearl. I know that it is. Once, one came out of my leg. To be truthful it wasn't really a pearl. More like a perfectly round tiny grey stone.
Had it been a real pearl, I'd have kept it.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
No Hair Theorem
Well, what does he say? Le Bon David asked impatiently. The VeloDrone cleared his throat.
The VeloDrone: ( reading in the tone of a voice-synthesizer ) Gentlemen. Perhaps you have heard of me. My name is Stephen Hawking....
Le Bon David: No need to do the voice, just read it.
The VeloDrone: Sorry, I can't help it. Gentlemen, de da de da.....I read with interest the recent article by your esteemed contributor Mr Salvador Dali, in which he describes a certain Nano String bicycle.
Le Bon David: Oh here we go. He's going to pull it to pieces.
The VeloDrone: No no, it doesn't look like it. Let me read on...... I feel I should point out that I too have been working on a Theory of NanoString Bicycles with particular reference to their usefulness in researching the Theory of Everything, as it relates to the Black Hole Information Paradox, the No Hair Theorem, and the No Boundary Universe, with which you gentlemen are no doubt familiar.
Le Bon David: Humpphh. I'm certainly not. Are you?
The VeloDrone: No, I'm not either.....But listen to this....... I am writing to let you know that I am willing , indeed more than willing, to contribute an article to your magazine Velosophy, upon these subjects. Gentlemen, I await your response. Yours faithfully, Stephen Hawking.
Le Bon David: Well! I suppose we should be grateful he isn't trying to blackmail us.
The VeloDrone: Isn't he? What does he mean by 'more than willing'? What choice do we really have? Reject the famous Stephen Hawking? I don't think so.
Le Bon David: I don't like it at all. How have we managed to lose control of our own magazine?
What's he going to write for goodness sake? What the devil is this No Hair Theory?
The VeloDrone: Theorem, David. No Hair Theorem. I don't know, but I suppose we are shortly to find out.
The VeloDrone: ( reading in the tone of a voice-synthesizer ) Gentlemen. Perhaps you have heard of me. My name is Stephen Hawking....
Le Bon David: No need to do the voice, just read it.
The VeloDrone: Sorry, I can't help it. Gentlemen, de da de da.....I read with interest the recent article by your esteemed contributor Mr Salvador Dali, in which he describes a certain Nano String bicycle.
Le Bon David: Oh here we go. He's going to pull it to pieces.
The VeloDrone: No no, it doesn't look like it. Let me read on...... I feel I should point out that I too have been working on a Theory of NanoString Bicycles with particular reference to their usefulness in researching the Theory of Everything, as it relates to the Black Hole Information Paradox, the No Hair Theorem, and the No Boundary Universe, with which you gentlemen are no doubt familiar.
Le Bon David: Humpphh. I'm certainly not. Are you?
The VeloDrone: No, I'm not either.....But listen to this....... I am writing to let you know that I am willing , indeed more than willing, to contribute an article to your magazine Velosophy, upon these subjects. Gentlemen, I await your response. Yours faithfully, Stephen Hawking.
Le Bon David: Well! I suppose we should be grateful he isn't trying to blackmail us.
The VeloDrone: Isn't he? What does he mean by 'more than willing'? What choice do we really have? Reject the famous Stephen Hawking? I don't think so.
Le Bon David: I don't like it at all. How have we managed to lose control of our own magazine?
What's he going to write for goodness sake? What the devil is this No Hair Theory?
The VeloDrone: Theorem, David. No Hair Theorem. I don't know, but I suppose we are shortly to find out.
Feedback
Le Bon David and the VeloDrone are sharing a stiff drink at the end of the day.
Le Bon David: Well, we published it. Now to be damned.
The VeloDrone: Maybe, maybe not. I wonder what the readers will make of it.
Le Bon David: Pseudo-scientific arty-farty claptrap I suppose. Typical Dali. Still, we hadn't any choice.
The VeloDrone: True. But I quite liked his nanostring bicycle idea, even though it wasn't scientific or reasonable or philosophical. Could it be we've had too strict a view of what Velosophy is all about?
Le Bon David: Perhaps. Maybe Dali is right. People love the new. Therefore they will love a pseudo-scientific arty-farty concept for a new and incredibly weird bicycle. Anyway, we'll soon find out.
The VeloDrone: Look. We've just got an email.
Le Bon David: Good! Feedback. Who's it from?
The VeloDrone: Ooh dear! You won't like this!
Le Bon David: Who? Who?
The VeloDrone: It's from Stephen Hawking!
Le Bon David: Crumbs! Surely he doesn't own a bicycle!
Le Bon David: Well, we published it. Now to be damned.
The VeloDrone: Maybe, maybe not. I wonder what the readers will make of it.
Le Bon David: Pseudo-scientific arty-farty claptrap I suppose. Typical Dali. Still, we hadn't any choice.
The VeloDrone: True. But I quite liked his nanostring bicycle idea, even though it wasn't scientific or reasonable or philosophical. Could it be we've had too strict a view of what Velosophy is all about?
Le Bon David: Perhaps. Maybe Dali is right. People love the new. Therefore they will love a pseudo-scientific arty-farty concept for a new and incredibly weird bicycle. Anyway, we'll soon find out.
The VeloDrone: Look. We've just got an email.
Le Bon David: Good! Feedback. Who's it from?
The VeloDrone: Ooh dear! You won't like this!
Le Bon David: Who? Who?
The VeloDrone: It's from Stephen Hawking!
Le Bon David: Crumbs! Surely he doesn't own a bicycle!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
NanoString Bicycle
People! Remember me? It is I, Salvador Dali. The only difference between myself and a madman is: I am not mad. Ah yes, you remember me now!
It was I who painted the fourth dimension, in the shape of eight cubes. It was I who depicted the bending of light in the form of a spoon. Science, my friends, follows Dali, and Dali follows no one at all.
Surrealism may be dead. But Dali is not dead. Dali moves with the times. Dali moves before the times. The times follow Dali.
Enter my space. It is dark. What have we here? In a dark interactive tunnel you find a brilliant piece of work, by Dali. It is his new NanoString bicycle. The bicycle is blue and green and violet. These colours symbolise.....NOTHING!!! they are merely the colours Dali has chosen today. Symbolism is dead, but things must have a colour.
The NanoString bicycle is made of nano particles. They are miniscule. They are absorbed immediately into your skin. The bicycle becomes a part of you and you become the bicycle. You pedal down the dark tunnel, towards a screen at the end. You see your self riding towards you, and you are ALARMED! Momentarily. But you have forgotten your new nano qualities. You ride straight through the screen.
Crash! A million stars! Receding, receding....... You ride through dark matter, and dark energy sucks hungrily at your pedals....... you are going to vanish inside a BLACK HOLE. PANIC!!! But no. Here is the beauty and inventiveness of Dali's bicycle. The bicycle has remained attached to the tunnel by a series of nano strings, blue and green and violet. Yes! They did symbolise something afer all. They draw you back from certain extinction.The beautiful strings.
I, Dali, invented this.
It was I who painted the fourth dimension, in the shape of eight cubes. It was I who depicted the bending of light in the form of a spoon. Science, my friends, follows Dali, and Dali follows no one at all.
Surrealism may be dead. But Dali is not dead. Dali moves with the times. Dali moves before the times. The times follow Dali.
Enter my space. It is dark. What have we here? In a dark interactive tunnel you find a brilliant piece of work, by Dali. It is his new NanoString bicycle. The bicycle is blue and green and violet. These colours symbolise.....NOTHING!!! they are merely the colours Dali has chosen today. Symbolism is dead, but things must have a colour.
The NanoString bicycle is made of nano particles. They are miniscule. They are absorbed immediately into your skin. The bicycle becomes a part of you and you become the bicycle. You pedal down the dark tunnel, towards a screen at the end. You see your self riding towards you, and you are ALARMED! Momentarily. But you have forgotten your new nano qualities. You ride straight through the screen.
Crash! A million stars! Receding, receding....... You ride through dark matter, and dark energy sucks hungrily at your pedals....... you are going to vanish inside a BLACK HOLE. PANIC!!! But no. Here is the beauty and inventiveness of Dali's bicycle. The bicycle has remained attached to the tunnel by a series of nano strings, blue and green and violet. Yes! They did symbolise something afer all. They draw you back from certain extinction.The beautiful strings.
I, Dali, invented this.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Self-organising Molecules
A DNA sequence? said Pliny the Elder. What would have been so bad about that?
It would have been scary, a DNA sequence floating on top of green tea. It might have been the beginning of a new super organism. CTRAT has an R in it though, so that's alright. DNA sequences are made up of C T A and G.
You are not thinking clearly, said Pliny. A DNA sequence that was, for arguments sake, floating on top of green tea would not necessarily be made up of letters. In fact we can be pretty certain it wouldn't. It would just look like a piece of one of those double helixes. The letters are a human construct.
I hadn't thought of that. Anyway, what do you think CTRAT means? Are you sure it was CTRAT?
No, it could have been CAROT or CRIST.
Why didn't you say so before?
I knew you wouldn't like either of those.
You're right. They sound too much like real words. I quite like self-organising molecules but there have to be limits.
It would have been scary, a DNA sequence floating on top of green tea. It might have been the beginning of a new super organism. CTRAT has an R in it though, so that's alright. DNA sequences are made up of C T A and G.
You are not thinking clearly, said Pliny. A DNA sequence that was, for arguments sake, floating on top of green tea would not necessarily be made up of letters. In fact we can be pretty certain it wouldn't. It would just look like a piece of one of those double helixes. The letters are a human construct.
I hadn't thought of that. Anyway, what do you think CTRAT means? Are you sure it was CTRAT?
No, it could have been CAROT or CRIST.
Why didn't you say so before?
I knew you wouldn't like either of those.
You're right. They sound too much like real words. I quite like self-organising molecules but there have to be limits.
Monday, October 26, 2009
CTRAT
What are these doubts and suspicions you have about the Navy? asked Pliny the Elder. These dark hints require an explanation.
They were trying to promote the Navy, I replied. I didn't think that their carefree musical presentation was an accurate representation of what the Navy is about. I couldn't quite rid my mind of newspaper and television reports of sexual harassment.
Good gracious, said Pliny. I was an Admiral in the Roman Navy, you know. We certainly didn't have any sexual harassment issues in my day. No women, that's why. Nor did we need to go out and play music to the general public in order to make them like us. They liked us when we won naval battles, and they didn't like us when we lost, it was as simple as that.
Oh yes, I'd forgotten you were in the navy, I said. That must have been very exciting.
Mmm, said Pliny, dreamily looking into his teacup. Then he looked a bit harder. My goodness, he said. Take a look at this!
I looked, but couldn't see anything apart from the transparent yellow green tea.
Look at the surface of the tea, he said. What's that floating on the top?
I looked again, and it was true that in the right light you could see flat patches of something floating on the surface of the tea. They looked like maps of islands, with rivers, deltas, archipelagoes and fiords, reflecting the light somewhat differently from the tea.
Is it grease? I asked?
No, he answered it doesn't look like any island that I know of.
Oh very funny I said, except that Greece isn't an island.
Yes, he said absently. I'm just trying to see what this tiny floating speck here is. It looks like squiggly writing. I'm sure if I can just get a bit nearer I'll be able to read what it says. It starts with C. And it seems to end in T.
How many letters does it have? I asked.
Five, he said. I think...........I think it might be........... CTRAT !
Thank goodness for that, I said. For a moment I thought it might be a DNA sequence.
They were trying to promote the Navy, I replied. I didn't think that their carefree musical presentation was an accurate representation of what the Navy is about. I couldn't quite rid my mind of newspaper and television reports of sexual harassment.
Good gracious, said Pliny. I was an Admiral in the Roman Navy, you know. We certainly didn't have any sexual harassment issues in my day. No women, that's why. Nor did we need to go out and play music to the general public in order to make them like us. They liked us when we won naval battles, and they didn't like us when we lost, it was as simple as that.
Oh yes, I'd forgotten you were in the navy, I said. That must have been very exciting.
Mmm, said Pliny, dreamily looking into his teacup. Then he looked a bit harder. My goodness, he said. Take a look at this!
I looked, but couldn't see anything apart from the transparent yellow green tea.
Look at the surface of the tea, he said. What's that floating on the top?
I looked again, and it was true that in the right light you could see flat patches of something floating on the surface of the tea. They looked like maps of islands, with rivers, deltas, archipelagoes and fiords, reflecting the light somewhat differently from the tea.
Is it grease? I asked?
No, he answered it doesn't look like any island that I know of.
Oh very funny I said, except that Greece isn't an island.
Yes, he said absently. I'm just trying to see what this tiny floating speck here is. It looks like squiggly writing. I'm sure if I can just get a bit nearer I'll be able to read what it says. It starts with C. And it seems to end in T.
How many letters does it have? I asked.
Five, he said. I think...........I think it might be........... CTRAT !
Thank goodness for that, I said. For a moment I thought it might be a DNA sequence.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
In the Navy
Let us return to last Friday, before I got my sore toe. To the Blue Lemon Baguette Bar on North Terrace, where I am sitting at a metal table on a metal chair eating a number 16 baguette, with my mother, who is eating a different number, which I have forgotten.
A band strikes up across the road in front of the Museum. It is a brass band. It is a mixed gender white-uniformed Navy Band. It is Navy Week. A small crowd gathers to listen. They should do this every Friday, says my mum.
After we've eaten we cross the road. We have ten minutes before we have to be at the Elder Hall. Shall we sit down in the sun and listen for a bit? I ask. Yes let's, says my mum. The band is playing I Love Rock 'n' Roll. They are trying very hard to get the audience to clap their hands in the air but nobody will. I feel like clapping my hands in the air, but I, too, won't.
Does anybody like Tina Turner? asks the burly trumpet player. No one admits to it. Well, he says, our singer does and now she's going to sing you a medley of Tina Turner hits.
The singer, small dark-haired and pretty, sings You're Simply the Best. The sun and the music and the little three year old boy dancing in front of his mother make me feel that I am in fact enjoying the ambience. Maybe I really am. Yes, I am. But I'm also deeply suspicious of the men and women of this band. Especially the MEN. As we walk off in the direction of the Elder Hall, I fix them with a baleful stare.
A band strikes up across the road in front of the Museum. It is a brass band. It is a mixed gender white-uniformed Navy Band. It is Navy Week. A small crowd gathers to listen. They should do this every Friday, says my mum.
After we've eaten we cross the road. We have ten minutes before we have to be at the Elder Hall. Shall we sit down in the sun and listen for a bit? I ask. Yes let's, says my mum. The band is playing I Love Rock 'n' Roll. They are trying very hard to get the audience to clap their hands in the air but nobody will. I feel like clapping my hands in the air, but I, too, won't.
Does anybody like Tina Turner? asks the burly trumpet player. No one admits to it. Well, he says, our singer does and now she's going to sing you a medley of Tina Turner hits.
The singer, small dark-haired and pretty, sings You're Simply the Best. The sun and the music and the little three year old boy dancing in front of his mother make me feel that I am in fact enjoying the ambience. Maybe I really am. Yes, I am. But I'm also deeply suspicious of the men and women of this band. Especially the MEN. As we walk off in the direction of the Elder Hall, I fix them with a baleful stare.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Free Will and Toe
This is a tale of free will, and not having it. And because it is a short tale, a digression by way of the toe.
Alternatively, I could begin with the toe. And then digress to free will.
After all, it's up to me.
I have a sore toe. It's my right middle toe, which I injured walking home from the city on Friday in unsuitable shoes. On Saturday, I protected it with a Bandaid.
My tale begins at bedtime. No, just after. I am in bed and ready to fall asleep. Then I remember that I still have the Bandaid on my toe.
I am a person who believes, probably wrongly, that it is better to take a Bandaid off at night to allow the air to perform its healing work. My theory is that no harm will come to the injury in bed.
So, I'm lying in bed, picking at the edges of the Bandaid on my toe. Of course, I don't get anywhere. I can't even find the edge of the Bandaid. After a few more fruitless pickings, I'm
thinking about getting up, finding the nail scissors and snipping the Bandaid off. Then I'm thinking that it doesn't really matter if I don't. Because I don't want to get up out of bed.
Next thing I know, I've turned on the bedside light and I'm standing up looking for my nail scissors. Blow me, I think. Where was my free will in this?
Alternatively, I could begin with the toe. And then digress to free will.
After all, it's up to me.
I have a sore toe. It's my right middle toe, which I injured walking home from the city on Friday in unsuitable shoes. On Saturday, I protected it with a Bandaid.
My tale begins at bedtime. No, just after. I am in bed and ready to fall asleep. Then I remember that I still have the Bandaid on my toe.
I am a person who believes, probably wrongly, that it is better to take a Bandaid off at night to allow the air to perform its healing work. My theory is that no harm will come to the injury in bed.
So, I'm lying in bed, picking at the edges of the Bandaid on my toe. Of course, I don't get anywhere. I can't even find the edge of the Bandaid. After a few more fruitless pickings, I'm
thinking about getting up, finding the nail scissors and snipping the Bandaid off. Then I'm thinking that it doesn't really matter if I don't. Because I don't want to get up out of bed.
Next thing I know, I've turned on the bedside light and I'm standing up looking for my nail scissors. Blow me, I think. Where was my free will in this?
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