Does life begin
When you're spat out
Dried and put in
A paper envelope?
Or when you're planted out,
And sprout?
You grew little
On the brittle grass,
A brown patch under you.
A tragedy, you heard,
And you replied,
O but i have not died.
O melon!
You met your fate,
And now you have been ate.
Last night the moon
Was 24 per cent
Of melancholy.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Our Little Friend
What's this on the top? asked Pliny at lunchtime peering into his bowl of fruit.
It's rock melon, I replied.
Not our little friend? he said, looking harder.
Yes, it is. His vine rotted away and he became detached this morning. I bet he never expected to fulfil his destiny so soon. How does he taste?
A definite rock melon nose. But disturbingly mushy. I don't think I look forward to finishing him off in this state. Perhaps we could use him in a cooked dish. My friend Apicius had a recipe called Pepones et Melones.
I'm all for that, I agreed, as long as it doesn't contain fish sauce.
As a matter of fact it does, said Pliny. You peel and dice the melon, after removing the seeds. Then you cook it with honey, parsley, pepper, a little liquamen, or salt, and vinegar.
I can't do that to him, I said. And I can't do that to me. But you can. We'll cut him in half, what's left of him anyway, and each do what we like with our portion.
This makes a nonsense of the idea of Fate and Destiny, observed Pliny, not to mention the integrity of the individual soul.
In such cases, I said, agreeing with him, it is better to think in terms of the Manichean division into Good and Evil.
Dualism? said Pliny. And my fish sauce would be Evil I suppose, according to you. May I ask what you intend to do with your own little piece of our friend?
Share him with Nostradamus, I said, who created him in the first place. And perhaps we will save some of the seeds and begin the whole cycle again. I might, I added grandly, even attempt to immortalize him in an elegaic poem.
Right, said Pliny. Now where's my knife?
It's rock melon, I replied.
Not our little friend? he said, looking harder.
Yes, it is. His vine rotted away and he became detached this morning. I bet he never expected to fulfil his destiny so soon. How does he taste?
A definite rock melon nose. But disturbingly mushy. I don't think I look forward to finishing him off in this state. Perhaps we could use him in a cooked dish. My friend Apicius had a recipe called Pepones et Melones.
I'm all for that, I agreed, as long as it doesn't contain fish sauce.
As a matter of fact it does, said Pliny. You peel and dice the melon, after removing the seeds. Then you cook it with honey, parsley, pepper, a little liquamen, or salt, and vinegar.
I can't do that to him, I said. And I can't do that to me. But you can. We'll cut him in half, what's left of him anyway, and each do what we like with our portion.
This makes a nonsense of the idea of Fate and Destiny, observed Pliny, not to mention the integrity of the individual soul.
In such cases, I said, agreeing with him, it is better to think in terms of the Manichean division into Good and Evil.
Dualism? said Pliny. And my fish sauce would be Evil I suppose, according to you. May I ask what you intend to do with your own little piece of our friend?
Share him with Nostradamus, I said, who created him in the first place. And perhaps we will save some of the seeds and begin the whole cycle again. I might, I added grandly, even attempt to immortalize him in an elegaic poem.
Right, said Pliny. Now where's my knife?
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Wisdom of the Melon
Plucky little melon! I said, admiringly.
Mmmm, said Pliny the Elder, looking bemused. How a melon could write you a letter I cannot quite fathom. But the quality of the spelling indicates it is genuine. Interesting, its stoicism and its strong belief in destiny.
Yes, I said. By the way, did you know the ancient Sumerians made a distinction between fate and destiny? They believed that Destiny or NAM, was unalterable, but that Fate, or NAM-TAR, could be changed by the actions of men.
Well that appears to be what the melon believes, said Pliny. Perhaps it is a Sumerian melon. However, Nietzsche would have it otherwise. He believed that Fate was unalterable, but that it was possible for a man to take control of his own Destiny.
Goodness, I said, they both sound quite plausible, don't they. Perhaps that is because Fate and Destiny really are interchangeable.
In that case, said Pliny, how could one be alterable and the other unalterable?
Easily, I said. One equates to what has not yet happened, and the other to what has already happened.
That is good, said Pliny, but the question remains as to which is which. Of course it is always possible that NAM could equally well have been translated as Fate, and NAM-TAR as Destiny. Who is to say? In any case, I should not like to have to explain it to the melon.
Mmmm, said Pliny the Elder, looking bemused. How a melon could write you a letter I cannot quite fathom. But the quality of the spelling indicates it is genuine. Interesting, its stoicism and its strong belief in destiny.
Yes, I said. By the way, did you know the ancient Sumerians made a distinction between fate and destiny? They believed that Destiny or NAM, was unalterable, but that Fate, or NAM-TAR, could be changed by the actions of men.
Well that appears to be what the melon believes, said Pliny. Perhaps it is a Sumerian melon. However, Nietzsche would have it otherwise. He believed that Fate was unalterable, but that it was possible for a man to take control of his own Destiny.
Goodness, I said, they both sound quite plausible, don't they. Perhaps that is because Fate and Destiny really are interchangeable.
In that case, said Pliny, how could one be alterable and the other unalterable?
Easily, I said. One equates to what has not yet happened, and the other to what has already happened.
That is good, said Pliny, but the question remains as to which is which. Of course it is always possible that NAM could equally well have been translated as Fate, and NAM-TAR as Destiny. Who is to say? In any case, I should not like to have to explain it to the melon.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
The Melon Has its Own Opinion
hay!
i wood just lik to lett you no that you dont rite me off just yet.
i may only bee a melon but i have my pride and my beleaf in destinny too. i have a strong sens of that i will reech my full .
you doant even no what kind of melon i am i herd you.
i am a rok melon that meens i am strong it meens when it rayns so wott i just get on with it like a rok
ok so wott if
annyway.
sined
melon
upu !
i wood just lik to lett you no that you dont rite me off just yet.
i may only bee a melon but i have my pride and my beleaf in destinny too. i have a strong sens of that i will reech my full .
you doant even no what kind of melon i am i herd you.
i am a rok melon that meens i am strong it meens when it rayns so wott i just get on with it like a rok
ok so wott if
annyway.
sined
melon
upu !
Saturday, April 25, 2009
The Fate of the Melon
You do know, said Pliny, chewing thoughtfully on a sardine, that pineapples don't grow on trees?
Do I? I said. How do you know?
It was a rhetorical question, said Pliny. You mentioned pineapple trees. I assumed that you didn't know.
What do they grow on then? I asked huffily.
The pineapple plant is a bromeliad and grows as a spiky bush close to the ground. Each bush produces only one pineapple.
Oh. Yes I remember now. We saw them growing like that when we were in Queensland. I couldn't believe my eyes. I still prefer to think they grow on tall trees, more like coconuts.
Pliny looked disgusted. Fantasy! he snorted, spraying me with sardine fragments. The whole thing was nothing but a fantasy.
Well, Pliny, I did say at the end that it wasn't true. It was a fantasy triggered by the rain.
No reason to get it all wrong, said Pliny. In fact, you have a perfectly good melon growing out there on the grass, and yet you never mentioned it.
I didn't want to introduce an element of tragedy, I said.
Do I? I said. How do you know?
It was a rhetorical question, said Pliny. You mentioned pineapple trees. I assumed that you didn't know.
What do they grow on then? I asked huffily.
The pineapple plant is a bromeliad and grows as a spiky bush close to the ground. Each bush produces only one pineapple.
Oh. Yes I remember now. We saw them growing like that when we were in Queensland. I couldn't believe my eyes. I still prefer to think they grow on tall trees, more like coconuts.
Pliny looked disgusted. Fantasy! he snorted, spraying me with sardine fragments. The whole thing was nothing but a fantasy.
Well, Pliny, I did say at the end that it wasn't true. It was a fantasy triggered by the rain.
No reason to get it all wrong, said Pliny. In fact, you have a perfectly good melon growing out there on the grass, and yet you never mentioned it.
I didn't want to introduce an element of tragedy, I said.
Friday, April 24, 2009
The Sardinian Sacrifice
Why are the shops shut? asked Pliny the Elder. I want to buy some sardines.
It's Anzac Day, I replied.
What's that?
It's the day we remember the soldiers who died in the wars.
Very good, said Pliny. No one should forget the importance of wars. I am very proud of my own military service. What a great empire we Romans had. They were glorious days.
We don't remember the gloriousness of it, I said. We remember the sacrifice they made.
By the Heavens! said Pliny. Don't tell me sacrifice isn't glorious! So, no sardines for lunch today.
I shall have brown bread and cheese.
It's Anzac Day, I replied.
What's that?
It's the day we remember the soldiers who died in the wars.
Very good, said Pliny. No one should forget the importance of wars. I am very proud of my own military service. What a great empire we Romans had. They were glorious days.
We don't remember the gloriousness of it, I said. We remember the sacrifice they made.
By the Heavens! said Pliny. Don't tell me sacrifice isn't glorious! So, no sardines for lunch today.
I shall have brown bread and cheese.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
This Is True
It rained yesterday. The first rain we've had all year, to speak of. This is true. It rained all day. We had to like it, even though we don't like getting wet. This is also true.
When it rains here the dead grass sprouts immediately and turns a brilliant green. This is generally true.
We used to throw our washing up water on the grass to keep it from forgetting. This is poetically true.
Usually the washing up water would have bits of food in it, such as rice, apple pips, rocket leaves, pineapple slices, onion rings and tomato paste in suspension. This is demonstrably true.
This morning you couldn't see the grass for the rice, rocket, onion and tomato plants that had sprung up in profusion overnight, under a canopy of apple and pineapple trees.
This isn't true, and I'm quite disappointed.
When it rains here the dead grass sprouts immediately and turns a brilliant green. This is generally true.
We used to throw our washing up water on the grass to keep it from forgetting. This is poetically true.
Usually the washing up water would have bits of food in it, such as rice, apple pips, rocket leaves, pineapple slices, onion rings and tomato paste in suspension. This is demonstrably true.
This morning you couldn't see the grass for the rice, rocket, onion and tomato plants that had sprung up in profusion overnight, under a canopy of apple and pineapple trees.
This isn't true, and I'm quite disappointed.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Le Tableau de l'Operation de la Taille
So Pliny listened, as I had done, to Le Tableau de l'Operation de la Taille, played on the viola da gamba, accompanied by these words, narrated in a loud dramatic tone :
The appearance of the operating table.
A shudder on seeing it.
Resolution climbing in.
Climbing out and dismounting.
Grave thoughts.
Knotting the silk restraints for arms and legs.
The incision is made. ( here the music rises in a screech of terrible dissonance )
Introduction of the forceps.
Then the stone is drawn.
You nearly lose your voice.
Blood flows.
The silks are unknotted.
Then you are taken to bed.
By Jove! said Pliny the Elder. That was certainly hair-raising. It surprises me that it should be thought to be a suitable subject for a musical composition.
Me too, I said. I imagine it was quite cutting edge, in 1725. Anyway, fancy having to have gallstones removed without an anaesthetic. I suppose it was even worse in your day.
Oh no, said Pliny airily. We had knowledge of anaesthetics back then. White mandrake, crushed marble and acetum.... We had forceps, scalpels, catheters, speculums, arrow extractors, bone hooks and levers. We had pain killers and sedatives, and germ killers even though we didn't know what germs were.
Really Pliny? I said. Then you were more enlightened than they were in 18th century France.
Yes, he said, but we had not the benefit of the invention of the viola da gamba.
You have now, I said. Let's listen to it again.
The appearance of the operating table.
A shudder on seeing it.
Resolution climbing in.
Climbing out and dismounting.
Grave thoughts.
Knotting the silk restraints for arms and legs.
The incision is made. ( here the music rises in a screech of terrible dissonance )
Introduction of the forceps.
Then the stone is drawn.
You nearly lose your voice.
Blood flows.
The silks are unknotted.
Then you are taken to bed.
By Jove! said Pliny the Elder. That was certainly hair-raising. It surprises me that it should be thought to be a suitable subject for a musical composition.
Me too, I said. I imagine it was quite cutting edge, in 1725. Anyway, fancy having to have gallstones removed without an anaesthetic. I suppose it was even worse in your day.
Oh no, said Pliny airily. We had knowledge of anaesthetics back then. White mandrake, crushed marble and acetum.... We had forceps, scalpels, catheters, speculums, arrow extractors, bone hooks and levers. We had pain killers and sedatives, and germ killers even though we didn't know what germs were.
Really Pliny? I said. Then you were more enlightened than they were in 18th century France.
Yes, he said, but we had not the benefit of the invention of the viola da gamba.
You have now, I said. Let's listen to it again.
La Matelotte
It's obvious, opined Pliny the Elder. I love you yet means I love you still.
Maybe, I said, but I feel sure there was a fourth line. It would have had to to rhyme with yet. I can't think what it could have been.
I can, said Pliny. How about this:
Mewsette , Mewsette,
My love and my pet,
I love you yet
I sometimes forget.
Pliny! I said, that wasn't it, but it's very clever. You've turned an ambiguity into an ambivalence.
Thankyou, said Pliny. And now tell me about La Matelotte. What is a matelotte?
Well, I had no idea. It sounded like a lively dance. When I got home I discovered that a matelot is a French sailor, so I guess a matelotte is a lady sailor. I didn't think they had lady sailors in the 18th century though.
No said Pliny, but a lady could dance with a sailor. What did the program notes say?
Nothing. Except that Marais, the composer, once wrote a piece of music called Le Tableau de l'Operation de la Taille. It was about an operation to remove gallstones.
I should like to hear that, said Pliny, looking nevertheless somewhat doubtful.
You can, I said. On YouTube.
Maybe, I said, but I feel sure there was a fourth line. It would have had to to rhyme with yet. I can't think what it could have been.
I can, said Pliny. How about this:
Mewsette , Mewsette,
My love and my pet,
I love you yet
I sometimes forget.
Pliny! I said, that wasn't it, but it's very clever. You've turned an ambiguity into an ambivalence.
Thankyou, said Pliny. And now tell me about La Matelotte. What is a matelotte?
Well, I had no idea. It sounded like a lively dance. When I got home I discovered that a matelot is a French sailor, so I guess a matelotte is a lady sailor. I didn't think they had lady sailors in the 18th century though.
No said Pliny, but a lady could dance with a sailor. What did the program notes say?
Nothing. Except that Marais, the composer, once wrote a piece of music called Le Tableau de l'Operation de la Taille. It was about an operation to remove gallstones.
I should like to hear that, said Pliny, looking nevertheless somewhat doubtful.
You can, I said. On YouTube.
Monday, April 20, 2009
La Musette
Pliny went to the Lunch Hour concert with her mum last Friday. They heard the distinguished Jean-Eric Soucy playing Five Old French Songs on the viola.
The Five Old French songs were l'Agreable, la Provencale, la Musette, la Matelotte and la Basque.
La Musette sounded like a cat dancing a tango. Musette, mused Pliny. What does that mean?
Does it have something to do with a cat?
I don't think so.
Except that it sounds like Mewsette.
Mewsette does have something to do with a cat.
Pliny remembered many years ago a Little Golden Book called Gay Purr-ee. She used to read it to her little sister. It was about French cats, or American cats in France. Jaune Tom sang this song to his love, Mewsette.
Mewsette, Mewsette,
My love and my pet,
I love you yet.
That can't be right, thought Pliny. I love you yet. I love you yet what?
The Five Old French songs were l'Agreable, la Provencale, la Musette, la Matelotte and la Basque.
La Musette sounded like a cat dancing a tango. Musette, mused Pliny. What does that mean?
Does it have something to do with a cat?
I don't think so.
Except that it sounds like Mewsette.
Mewsette does have something to do with a cat.
Pliny remembered many years ago a Little Golden Book called Gay Purr-ee. She used to read it to her little sister. It was about French cats, or American cats in France. Jaune Tom sang this song to his love, Mewsette.
Mewsette, Mewsette,
My love and my pet,
I love you yet.
That can't be right, thought Pliny. I love you yet. I love you yet what?
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Cartouche
And what, pray, is the Bonnetts horse? asked Pliny the Elder.
It's a life size model of a dapple grey that stands outside Bonnetts Saddlery half way down Magill Road on the way into the city.
And is it dangerous?
Not exactly, but it can give you a fright if you're daydreaming. Especially if it's wearing the electric blue hood with the pointy ears.
How far is it from the nail?
A longish way. In fact, if you're going past the Bonnetts horse you can avoid the nail altogether by continuing down to the Maid and Magpie, crossing Fullarton Road and walking along North Terrace to the university. But that way you have to pass the Ozturf cows.
The Ozturf cows! What are those?
They're two full sized black and white fibreglass cows that graze on the synthetic grass out the front of Ozturf. At least I think they call it Ozturf. They make synthetic grass anyway. The cows are an advertisement.
How do they work as an advertisement? Buy synthetic grass so cows won't eat it?
Well, Pliny, I hadn't really thought. But I imagine it's more along the lines of : Our synthetic grass is so realistic that cows will eat it. Anyway, all these hazardous animals are just far enough away from the nail to create something of a problem with regard to scale. Do you think I should make three separate maps? I don't really want to.
Of course not. I suggest that instead you use the horse and the cows as an embellishment, and show each of them inside a cartouche.
It's a life size model of a dapple grey that stands outside Bonnetts Saddlery half way down Magill Road on the way into the city.
And is it dangerous?
Not exactly, but it can give you a fright if you're daydreaming. Especially if it's wearing the electric blue hood with the pointy ears.
How far is it from the nail?
A longish way. In fact, if you're going past the Bonnetts horse you can avoid the nail altogether by continuing down to the Maid and Magpie, crossing Fullarton Road and walking along North Terrace to the university. But that way you have to pass the Ozturf cows.
The Ozturf cows! What are those?
They're two full sized black and white fibreglass cows that graze on the synthetic grass out the front of Ozturf. At least I think they call it Ozturf. They make synthetic grass anyway. The cows are an advertisement.
How do they work as an advertisement? Buy synthetic grass so cows won't eat it?
Well, Pliny, I hadn't really thought. But I imagine it's more along the lines of : Our synthetic grass is so realistic that cows will eat it. Anyway, all these hazardous animals are just far enough away from the nail to create something of a problem with regard to scale. Do you think I should make three separate maps? I don't really want to.
Of course not. I suggest that instead you use the horse and the cows as an embellishment, and show each of them inside a cartouche.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Here Be Dragons
I didn't think you would have called yourself an Italian, Pliny. Don't you think of yourself as a Roman? You lived in the days of the Roman Empire. The rest of Italy was just a collection of Roman provinces at that time wasn't it?
Nit picker! Then, I was a Roman; now, I am an Italian; tomorrow I shall be a pile of bones.
Sorry, Pliny, let's change the subject. I'm reading an interesting book at the moment called The Island of Lost Maps. It's all about ancient maps, and how people steal them from libraries.
Am I to understand you are planning a robbery?
No Pliny, but it's inspired me to start planning a map.
You amaze me! What will be the purpose of your map?
You might laugh.
I might.
Well, my map will be a useful one. It will show with great exactitude the position of a very dangerous nail that sticks up in the footpath just near the kerb at the place where I cross Fullarton Road every Friday on my way into town. Because every time I see that nail I think, somebody could trip over it. It is just at the point where a person who has come down Chapel Street and crossed Fullarton Road might be expected to step up on to the opposite pavement. And this is no small nail. I would estimate the diameter of the head to be about 2 centimetres, and the shank about one and a half. It's an old, rusty, slightly bent iron nail, and it sticks up at least 3 centimetres from the footpath. Heaven knows what it's doing there.
Why don't you write a letter to the council asking them to remove the nail?
Then what would be the point of my map?
I see. It does sound like an admirable project. Perhaps you could include on your map other dangers that might be encountered on the way.
Oh yes! The Bonnetts horse!
Nit picker! Then, I was a Roman; now, I am an Italian; tomorrow I shall be a pile of bones.
Sorry, Pliny, let's change the subject. I'm reading an interesting book at the moment called The Island of Lost Maps. It's all about ancient maps, and how people steal them from libraries.
Am I to understand you are planning a robbery?
No Pliny, but it's inspired me to start planning a map.
You amaze me! What will be the purpose of your map?
You might laugh.
I might.
Well, my map will be a useful one. It will show with great exactitude the position of a very dangerous nail that sticks up in the footpath just near the kerb at the place where I cross Fullarton Road every Friday on my way into town. Because every time I see that nail I think, somebody could trip over it. It is just at the point where a person who has come down Chapel Street and crossed Fullarton Road might be expected to step up on to the opposite pavement. And this is no small nail. I would estimate the diameter of the head to be about 2 centimetres, and the shank about one and a half. It's an old, rusty, slightly bent iron nail, and it sticks up at least 3 centimetres from the footpath. Heaven knows what it's doing there.
Why don't you write a letter to the council asking them to remove the nail?
Then what would be the point of my map?
I see. It does sound like an admirable project. Perhaps you could include on your map other dangers that might be encountered on the way.
Oh yes! The Bonnetts horse!
Friday, April 17, 2009
Dance Not With Your Heart
How did you like Sophia Loren? I asked Pliny the Elder, the next day.
She was indeed very beautiful, he replied, but why was she playing the part of a Greek sponge gatherer? Is she not Italian?
She is Italian, I said, but it doesn't matter when you are acting. You follow the directions and it usually comes out right. Someone would have said to her, Now Sophia, remember you are a proud Greek woman, throw back your shoulders! And she did, to great effect. Also, if you saw the trailer, you may recall her fisherman boyfriend saying jealously, Tonight when you dance for him, dance with your head and your hands, but not with your heart. Then you see her dancing a Greek dance, stiff as a board. She really was awfully good.
True, said Pliny. We Italians are very good at most things.
She was indeed very beautiful, he replied, but why was she playing the part of a Greek sponge gatherer? Is she not Italian?
She is Italian, I said, but it doesn't matter when you are acting. You follow the directions and it usually comes out right. Someone would have said to her, Now Sophia, remember you are a proud Greek woman, throw back your shoulders! And she did, to great effect. Also, if you saw the trailer, you may recall her fisherman boyfriend saying jealously, Tonight when you dance for him, dance with your head and your hands, but not with your heart. Then you see her dancing a Greek dance, stiff as a board. She really was awfully good.
True, said Pliny. We Italians are very good at most things.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Unsuspected Veracity
More humanity! I said, surprised. But your nephew seems to have invented the part about the killing of the dolphin! I didn't see that in your version.
Well, yes, he may have invented it, but then he evinced much sorrow at the outcome. What greater example of humanity could you find than that?
I think he was a bit of a trickster, I said. He pretended he got the story from you to give it more cred. If I recall, he said he got it from someone of 'unsuspected veracity'.
Yes, said Pliny the Elder fondly, I always liked that expression. Anyway, his intentions were good. He wanted his friend to turn it into a poem.
Ah, I said. I get it. Art justifies anything. Do you know, the other day I remembered that as a child I was taken to see a film called Boy on a Dolphin. So I googled it, and found a You Tube site that showed the first 5 minutes of the film. It was so weird. It all came back to me. I was only 8 years old. I was expecting to see a real boy on a dolphin. All I saw was a murky underwater statue of one. As if that wasn't bad enough, Sophia Loren gets her skimpy swimming garment caught in some rocks and gashes her leg struggling to get free. When she comes up there's technicolour blood running all down her leg. I could hardly look.
How disappointing, said Pliny. Sophia Loren you say? Was she not a woman of great beauty?
She was, I replied, and particularly so when wet. Would you like to see her on the You Tube?
Yes, indeed, said Pliny. I would.
Well, yes, he may have invented it, but then he evinced much sorrow at the outcome. What greater example of humanity could you find than that?
I think he was a bit of a trickster, I said. He pretended he got the story from you to give it more cred. If I recall, he said he got it from someone of 'unsuspected veracity'.
Yes, said Pliny the Elder fondly, I always liked that expression. Anyway, his intentions were good. He wanted his friend to turn it into a poem.
Ah, I said. I get it. Art justifies anything. Do you know, the other day I remembered that as a child I was taken to see a film called Boy on a Dolphin. So I googled it, and found a You Tube site that showed the first 5 minutes of the film. It was so weird. It all came back to me. I was only 8 years old. I was expecting to see a real boy on a dolphin. All I saw was a murky underwater statue of one. As if that wasn't bad enough, Sophia Loren gets her skimpy swimming garment caught in some rocks and gashes her leg struggling to get free. When she comes up there's technicolour blood running all down her leg. I could hardly look.
How disappointing, said Pliny. Sophia Loren you say? Was she not a woman of great beauty?
She was, I replied, and particularly so when wet. Would you like to see her on the You Tube?
Yes, indeed, said Pliny. I would.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The Greater Humanity of Pliny the Younger
You were quoting yourself yesterday about dolphins, weren't you, I said to Pliny the Elder. Something you wrote nearly 2000 years ago.
What of it? asked Pliny.
Well, we know a lot more about dolphins' feeding habits nowadays, I said. You need to bring yourself up to date.
I already have, said Pliny. The Google is a wonderful thing. It is true that that different species of dolphins use different methods to catch their prey. The most common is the method known as Herding, but other dolphins use a method called Whacking, and the Spinner Dolphins seek their prey using Nocturnal Scanning. Yet other Dolphins suck up food from the ocean floor by means of Pushing Sponges.
Oh Pliny, I said. How is it that you manage to make everything sound so peculiar?
It is a talent I have never lost, he replied. Would you like to hear a wondrous story about a dolphin that I first recorded many years ago? It happened in Africa, in the town of Hippo, which is near the coast. A river running by the town links the ocean to a large lake, and dolphins were often seen there. Local boys used to swim there and hold races. One day a dolphin came up to one of the boys and allowed him to get up on his back. The dolphin swam to the deepest part of the river with the boy and then returned him safely to the shore. The dolphin and the boy became friends, and often swam together in this manner and the town became quite famous.
A charming story, I said.
Yes, but it does not have a happy ending, said Pliny. Bigwigs flocked from all around and their presence involved the people of the little town in expenses they could ill afford. It was thought the best way to curtail the situation was to kill the dolphin privately, and that is what they did.
Tragic, I said. But Pliny, you forget that I can Google too. Why have you given me your nephew Pliny the Younger's version of this story and not your own?
He had the story from me, said Pliny, but his version is held to have more humanity. Never let it be said that I do not consider myself open to improvement.
What of it? asked Pliny.
Well, we know a lot more about dolphins' feeding habits nowadays, I said. You need to bring yourself up to date.
I already have, said Pliny. The Google is a wonderful thing. It is true that that different species of dolphins use different methods to catch their prey. The most common is the method known as Herding, but other dolphins use a method called Whacking, and the Spinner Dolphins seek their prey using Nocturnal Scanning. Yet other Dolphins suck up food from the ocean floor by means of Pushing Sponges.
Oh Pliny, I said. How is it that you manage to make everything sound so peculiar?
It is a talent I have never lost, he replied. Would you like to hear a wondrous story about a dolphin that I first recorded many years ago? It happened in Africa, in the town of Hippo, which is near the coast. A river running by the town links the ocean to a large lake, and dolphins were often seen there. Local boys used to swim there and hold races. One day a dolphin came up to one of the boys and allowed him to get up on his back. The dolphin swam to the deepest part of the river with the boy and then returned him safely to the shore. The dolphin and the boy became friends, and often swam together in this manner and the town became quite famous.
A charming story, I said.
Yes, but it does not have a happy ending, said Pliny. Bigwigs flocked from all around and their presence involved the people of the little town in expenses they could ill afford. It was thought the best way to curtail the situation was to kill the dolphin privately, and that is what they did.
Tragic, I said. But Pliny, you forget that I can Google too. Why have you given me your nephew Pliny the Younger's version of this story and not your own?
He had the story from me, said Pliny, but his version is held to have more humanity. Never let it be said that I do not consider myself open to improvement.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The Power of Reason
Are we to understand you were happy with that conclusion? asked Pliny the Elder after reading my blog yesterday.
What conclusion? I asked.
That the colour of the sky was the colour of fire which was the colour that the sky was just then, said Pliny, in a tone heavy with irony. A somewhat tautologous conclusion, wouldn't you say?
That was the point I was making, I said. All metaphor is tautologous. You might as well not bother. So I went back inside
That is too deep even for me, said Pliny. Did you see any dolphins?
Yes, twice we saw one or two of them, swimming about 50 metres from the boat, I said.
Ah, the dolphin! said Pliny. The swiftest and cleverest of animals. If its mouth were not below its snout, almost in the middle of its stomach, no fish would escape its speed. But Nature's foresight adds an element of delay, because dolphins cannot snatch their prey except by turning on their back.
Pliny, I said, are you seriously suggesting that dolphins have to flip upside down in mid chase in order to swallow their prey?
Yes, said Pliny sententiously. It stands to reason. If it were not the case there would be precious few fish in the sea.
What conclusion? I asked.
That the colour of the sky was the colour of fire which was the colour that the sky was just then, said Pliny, in a tone heavy with irony. A somewhat tautologous conclusion, wouldn't you say?
That was the point I was making, I said. All metaphor is tautologous. You might as well not bother. So I went back inside
That is too deep even for me, said Pliny. Did you see any dolphins?
Yes, twice we saw one or two of them, swimming about 50 metres from the boat, I said.
Ah, the dolphin! said Pliny. The swiftest and cleverest of animals. If its mouth were not below its snout, almost in the middle of its stomach, no fish would escape its speed. But Nature's foresight adds an element of delay, because dolphins cannot snatch their prey except by turning on their back.
Pliny, I said, are you seriously suggesting that dolphins have to flip upside down in mid chase in order to swallow their prey?
Yes, said Pliny sententiously. It stands to reason. If it were not the case there would be precious few fish in the sea.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Easter Story 6
What is the colour of that sky? wondered Pliny, standing aft on the Dolphin Princess looking across the darkening Port River towards the red horizon and the black outline of the mangroves.
But it wasn't red. It was orange. No, it wasn't orange. And it definitely wasn't mandarin. That she knew because she had just eaten a warm chicken salad garnished with mandarin segments from a tin.
The breeze was not quite warm and mild. There were collections of black sticks floating on the gleaming water. They may have been seagulls. They were seagulls. Once the Dolphin Princess had passed them they turned white against the black water. A sunset trick.
The colour of the sky was, she realised, the colour of fire. And the colour of fire was the colour that the sky was, just then. So it should be, she thought. The sun is a ball of fire. She was glad she had thought that.
Now she could go back inside.
But it wasn't red. It was orange. No, it wasn't orange. And it definitely wasn't mandarin. That she knew because she had just eaten a warm chicken salad garnished with mandarin segments from a tin.
The breeze was not quite warm and mild. There were collections of black sticks floating on the gleaming water. They may have been seagulls. They were seagulls. Once the Dolphin Princess had passed them they turned white against the black water. A sunset trick.
The colour of the sky was, she realised, the colour of fire. And the colour of fire was the colour that the sky was, just then. So it should be, she thought. The sun is a ball of fire. She was glad she had thought that.
Now she could go back inside.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Easter Story 5 - Sorrow upon the Realisation
This year we said no chocolate
It only makes us fatter
So now we have no chocolate
And it doesn't really matter
But when you have no chocolate
At such a time as this
A little piece of chocolate
Would be tantamount to bliss.
( Alternative not quite so respectable version )
This year we said no chocolate
It only makes us fatter
So now we have no chocolate
And it doesn't really matter
But when you have no chocolate
I don't know why it is
That when you have no chocolate
It don't feel like Jesus riz.
It only makes us fatter
So now we have no chocolate
And it doesn't really matter
But when you have no chocolate
At such a time as this
A little piece of chocolate
Would be tantamount to bliss.
( Alternative not quite so respectable version )
This year we said no chocolate
It only makes us fatter
So now we have no chocolate
And it doesn't really matter
But when you have no chocolate
I don't know why it is
That when you have no chocolate
It don't feel like Jesus riz.
Easter Story 4
What do fish do at Easter time? They know nothing of Lent.
The question had not crossed the minds of Pliny and Nostradamus yesterday. They went to Port Noarlunga for a picnic and a walk beside the sea.
They sat near the rocks and ate salmon rolls, rock melon and grapes. The sun was shining, the sky was blue. It was 24 degrees. What perfect Easter weather we are having, they said.
They walked towards the southern cliffs and the Onkaparinga mouth, carrying their shoes in a bag. The reef was under water and only a faint line of splashes showed where it was. The sea, black green and blue green out there, was a pale translucent green at the shore, stretching up like toffee before dumping loudly on the sand.
When they reached the river they turned with it and sat down facing the opposite cliffs, on a small ridge of sand at the edge of the water. The tide was coming in. The river was racing inland. Small white fish were speeding along with it in mid stream. But something was not right with the small white fish.
After some time Pliny and Nostradamus realised that they were not even fish. They were just scum. It is less fascinating to watch scum swimming past. Pliny turned around.
Between her and the sea was a low sand hill, and metres away, on the horizon of the low sand hill were a hundred Hitchcockian seagulls. Pliny turned back to look at the water swirling into a tiny inlet just near her feet. The ripples and cross currents formed patterns like fish scales edged with golden light.
They got up and walked back along the edge of the river towards Port Noarlunga. Along a narrow churned up track between the water and the sand hills they passed fishing families with runaway dogs and sulky sons and daughters. The track opened up into sticky mud flats half covered in low green succulents with swollen red tips. The water was flat, reflective.
But not so reflective. Pliny and Nostradamus could see grey and brown fish in it, of small to medium size.
The closer they got to the bridge at the end of the sand hill trail, the more of these fish they could see. Nostradmus stopped to tell a fisherman that he had just seen a number of fish some way back. There's plenty here too, said the fisherman. But they're not biting today.
And they were not. There were hundreds of them in suspension all pointing southwards, and they were not biting today.
The question had not crossed the minds of Pliny and Nostradamus yesterday. They went to Port Noarlunga for a picnic and a walk beside the sea.
They sat near the rocks and ate salmon rolls, rock melon and grapes. The sun was shining, the sky was blue. It was 24 degrees. What perfect Easter weather we are having, they said.
They walked towards the southern cliffs and the Onkaparinga mouth, carrying their shoes in a bag. The reef was under water and only a faint line of splashes showed where it was. The sea, black green and blue green out there, was a pale translucent green at the shore, stretching up like toffee before dumping loudly on the sand.
When they reached the river they turned with it and sat down facing the opposite cliffs, on a small ridge of sand at the edge of the water. The tide was coming in. The river was racing inland. Small white fish were speeding along with it in mid stream. But something was not right with the small white fish.
After some time Pliny and Nostradamus realised that they were not even fish. They were just scum. It is less fascinating to watch scum swimming past. Pliny turned around.
Between her and the sea was a low sand hill, and metres away, on the horizon of the low sand hill were a hundred Hitchcockian seagulls. Pliny turned back to look at the water swirling into a tiny inlet just near her feet. The ripples and cross currents formed patterns like fish scales edged with golden light.
They got up and walked back along the edge of the river towards Port Noarlunga. Along a narrow churned up track between the water and the sand hills they passed fishing families with runaway dogs and sulky sons and daughters. The track opened up into sticky mud flats half covered in low green succulents with swollen red tips. The water was flat, reflective.
But not so reflective. Pliny and Nostradamus could see grey and brown fish in it, of small to medium size.
The closer they got to the bridge at the end of the sand hill trail, the more of these fish they could see. Nostradmus stopped to tell a fisherman that he had just seen a number of fish some way back. There's plenty here too, said the fisherman. But they're not biting today.
And they were not. There were hundreds of them in suspension all pointing southwards, and they were not biting today.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Easter Story 3
What a nice young man that Jesus was, said Pliny the Elder this morning. We had quite a long chat. We discovered we were both alive at the same time. I showed him some of my writings and he admired them very much. He said he was beginning to wish he had at least kept some sort of a diary. And did you know he saved the life of a small creature this morning? There was a ladybird drowning in the shower. I had seen it myself but not taken much notice. Later I saw it had been placed on the side of the bath, to dry out. A bit later on it was gone. I presume he took it carefully outside and placed it gently on a flower.
Pliny, I said severely. That is just how rumours start. It was I who saved the ladybird, and I can prove it by telling you the story. I was about to get out of the shower. I looked down and saw, in a corner, some hairs and two small round things, one larger than the other. I took a blue tissue from the tissue box and wiped up the lot in one sweep. I looked at the tissue. The larger of the round things had a ladybirdish look, but no legs. I went to get my glasses. It was a ladybird. I placed it on the side of the bath. After a minute it put out a few legs. Then I went to get dressed. When I came back it was gone. How do you like the story so far? Enough details to prove it was me?
No, said Pliny. Maybe he had gone into the bathroom while you were getting dressed, seen the ladybird and taken it outside.
Maybe, but I haven't finished the story, I said. I looked everywhere in that bathroom. On the floor, the window sill, in the bath, and even down the plughole, where it was very, very dark. Suddenly I saw the ladybird clinging to the side of the bath on the outside, looking small and disorientated. I went to the kitchen and picked up a little pink plastic bowl, returned to the bathroom and poked the ladybird. She fell to the floor. I scooped her up into the bowl, and carried her outside, where I placed her gently on a brick next to a pot of basil, and, as I realised a bit later on when I went back out to see if she was still there, a nest of ants. Now do you believe me?
Yes, said Pliny the Elder. How irritating you are. And was she still there?
No, she wasn't.
Pliny, I said severely. That is just how rumours start. It was I who saved the ladybird, and I can prove it by telling you the story. I was about to get out of the shower. I looked down and saw, in a corner, some hairs and two small round things, one larger than the other. I took a blue tissue from the tissue box and wiped up the lot in one sweep. I looked at the tissue. The larger of the round things had a ladybirdish look, but no legs. I went to get my glasses. It was a ladybird. I placed it on the side of the bath. After a minute it put out a few legs. Then I went to get dressed. When I came back it was gone. How do you like the story so far? Enough details to prove it was me?
No, said Pliny. Maybe he had gone into the bathroom while you were getting dressed, seen the ladybird and taken it outside.
Maybe, but I haven't finished the story, I said. I looked everywhere in that bathroom. On the floor, the window sill, in the bath, and even down the plughole, where it was very, very dark. Suddenly I saw the ladybird clinging to the side of the bath on the outside, looking small and disorientated. I went to the kitchen and picked up a little pink plastic bowl, returned to the bathroom and poked the ladybird. She fell to the floor. I scooped her up into the bowl, and carried her outside, where I placed her gently on a brick next to a pot of basil, and, as I realised a bit later on when I went back out to see if she was still there, a nest of ants. Now do you believe me?
Yes, said Pliny the Elder. How irritating you are. And was she still there?
No, she wasn't.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Easter Story 2
After dinner, Jesus wanted to read a book.
How about this? I said, offering him the New Revised Bible. It's all about you.
Is it? he said, that should be interesting. He sat down in a comfortable chair and began to read.
I don't remember any of this, he said after a few minutes. Are you sure it's about me?
Oh sorry, I said, that's the Old Testament. You're in the New Testament. It starts here.
Thank you, said Jesus. It would have taken me ages to find it myself.
He went on reading. After a while he looked up.
Who wrote this? he asked. He seems to be confusing me with Mithras.
Oh surely not, I said, everyone knows it's about you.
Well, I'm not so sure, he said. I have some major issues with it. Look what a muddle they've made of my parables, and as to my cursing the fig tree, do I strike you as the sort of fool that would do that?
No, I replied. I always wondered why you cursed the fig tree, just because you felt like having a fig, and it didn't have any figs on it at the time. It seemed so petty, not to mention self-defeating, to tell it to wither and die.
Exactly, said Jesus. I wonder if it's too late for me to do anything about it now?
How about this? I said, offering him the New Revised Bible. It's all about you.
Is it? he said, that should be interesting. He sat down in a comfortable chair and began to read.
I don't remember any of this, he said after a few minutes. Are you sure it's about me?
Oh sorry, I said, that's the Old Testament. You're in the New Testament. It starts here.
Thank you, said Jesus. It would have taken me ages to find it myself.
He went on reading. After a while he looked up.
Who wrote this? he asked. He seems to be confusing me with Mithras.
Oh surely not, I said, everyone knows it's about you.
Well, I'm not so sure, he said. I have some major issues with it. Look what a muddle they've made of my parables, and as to my cursing the fig tree, do I strike you as the sort of fool that would do that?
No, I replied. I always wondered why you cursed the fig tree, just because you felt like having a fig, and it didn't have any figs on it at the time. It seemed so petty, not to mention self-defeating, to tell it to wither and die.
Exactly, said Jesus. I wonder if it's too late for me to do anything about it now?
Easter Story 1
It was Easter time. Jesus came to dinner, unexpectedly. We were having Brussels Sprouts.
That's good, said Jesus. I like Brussels Sprouts.
But I didn't think we had enough.
Don't worry, said Jesus. These are big Brussels Sprouts. Just cut each one into quarters. No! Not that way! Longways. And see, they look like little green disciples.
He was right. Thet looked just like little green disciples, in frilly hoods. And we got 12 each.
That's good, said Jesus. I like Brussels Sprouts.
But I didn't think we had enough.
Don't worry, said Jesus. These are big Brussels Sprouts. Just cut each one into quarters. No! Not that way! Longways. And see, they look like little green disciples.
He was right. Thet looked just like little green disciples, in frilly hoods. And we got 12 each.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Spiky Cactus Pepper
Okay, here's the final verse, I said to Pliny. See what you think:
Tu es silencieuse, pourquoi?
J' ecris souvent, enfin, a toi.
Tes poignets, sont-ils devenu
Inutiles, ou d'autre coup?
And the translation is:
You are silent, tell me why?
I often write to you, don't I.
Not discounting other factors
I suspect your wrists are cactus.
I looked at Pliny. He appeared to be choking.
Cactus! he spluttered. Cactus! What is that supposed to mean?
Tu es silencieuse, pourquoi?
J' ecris souvent, enfin, a toi.
Tes poignets, sont-ils devenu
Inutiles, ou d'autre coup?
And the translation is:
You are silent, tell me why?
I often write to you, don't I.
Not discounting other factors
I suspect your wrists are cactus.
I looked at Pliny. He appeared to be choking.
Cactus! he spluttered. Cactus! What is that supposed to mean?
Oh you know, I said. No good, screwed, buggered up. What did you Romans used to say?
It matters little what we used to say, said Pliny. Words like that are not suitable for women's poetry. What will your friend think when she reads it?
She'll think I'm sharp. Her conscience will be pricked. Oh don't look so shocked, I'm not going to send it. There's no point.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Losing Italy
Tomatoes! But Pliny, you won't eat tomatoes. Does this mean you tried the bean soup?
Certainly not, I am merely reminding you that the recipe for bean soup generally includes tomatoes. They give it a more appetising colour. One does not always need to taste a dish to detect that something is missing. How is your poem, by the way, have you finished the second verse?
Yes, do you want to hear it?
Please.
Alright, the second verse goes like this:
Alors tu m'ecrivais enfin
De la famille, amies, copain,
Petits enfants, les belles vacance
En Espagne, en Italie, en France.
Hmmm, said Pliny. I don't know much French, but I think I understood the last line. What is your translation?
Sometimes you would write to me
Of friends and boyfriends, family,
Grandchildren, and the grand romance
Of holidays in Spain and France.
What happened to Italie? asked Pliny.
I had to leave it out. Scansion.
Why not leave it out of the French?
Then that wouldn't scan. And besides, she did go there. What do you think of it otherwise?
I think, said Pliny, that your translation must be very loose, but that does not much matter. More importantly, it lacks colour, like your soup. However, it is only the second verse, there is still time to add a bit more pepper.
Certainly not, I am merely reminding you that the recipe for bean soup generally includes tomatoes. They give it a more appetising colour. One does not always need to taste a dish to detect that something is missing. How is your poem, by the way, have you finished the second verse?
Yes, do you want to hear it?
Please.
Alright, the second verse goes like this:
Alors tu m'ecrivais enfin
De la famille, amies, copain,
Petits enfants, les belles vacance
En Espagne, en Italie, en France.
Hmmm, said Pliny. I don't know much French, but I think I understood the last line. What is your translation?
Sometimes you would write to me
Of friends and boyfriends, family,
Grandchildren, and the grand romance
Of holidays in Spain and France.
What happened to Italie? asked Pliny.
I had to leave it out. Scansion.
Why not leave it out of the French?
Then that wouldn't scan. And besides, she did go there. What do you think of it otherwise?
I think, said Pliny, that your translation must be very loose, but that does not much matter. More importantly, it lacks colour, like your soup. However, it is only the second verse, there is still time to add a bit more pepper.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Naughty Monkey
How do you mean, asked Pliny the Elder, to write a poem that rhymes in both French and English?
I mean to do it in the following manner, I replied. First, I shall write the poem in English, making it rhyme. Then, I shall translate it as closely as possible into French, making the French version rhyme. Finally, I shall present it as though the French version came first. I'm not getting very far.
That should not be too hard, said Pliny. Why are you doing it, may I ask?
I woke up yesterday morning and remembered it was my friend Julienne's 81st birthday. She used to send me funny links and emails. She never writes to me now. I think perhaps she can't. She used to love going to France for her holidays.
Oh, said Pliny. Well, let me see what you've got so far.
Alright I said, but don't laugh. This is the first verse:
Julienne! Quelle guenon mechante
Tu m'envoyais les spams plutot piquants
Mais je repondais jamais a telle chose;
Trop impersonelle, je suppose.
Well, it looks as though it rhymes in French, said Pliny. Now what's your English translation?
Julienne! You were a naughty monkey,
Sending spam links that were kind of funky.
I never replied to any of those,
Too impersonal, I suppose.
By the Gods! spluttered Pliny. Won't your friend find that rather insulting?
Yes, she might, I said, but maybe it will spur her into action. Anyway, it gets nicer. Or at least, it will. The second verse is all about her holidays. But it isn't ready yet.
You must show it to me tomorrow then , said Pliny. By the way, that bean soup could have done with some tomatoes.
I mean to do it in the following manner, I replied. First, I shall write the poem in English, making it rhyme. Then, I shall translate it as closely as possible into French, making the French version rhyme. Finally, I shall present it as though the French version came first. I'm not getting very far.
That should not be too hard, said Pliny. Why are you doing it, may I ask?
I woke up yesterday morning and remembered it was my friend Julienne's 81st birthday. She used to send me funny links and emails. She never writes to me now. I think perhaps she can't. She used to love going to France for her holidays.
Oh, said Pliny. Well, let me see what you've got so far.
Alright I said, but don't laugh. This is the first verse:
Julienne! Quelle guenon mechante
Tu m'envoyais les spams plutot piquants
Mais je repondais jamais a telle chose;
Trop impersonelle, je suppose.
Well, it looks as though it rhymes in French, said Pliny. Now what's your English translation?
Julienne! You were a naughty monkey,
Sending spam links that were kind of funky.
I never replied to any of those,
Too impersonal, I suppose.
By the Gods! spluttered Pliny. Won't your friend find that rather insulting?
Yes, she might, I said, but maybe it will spur her into action. Anyway, it gets nicer. Or at least, it will. The second verse is all about her holidays. But it isn't ready yet.
You must show it to me tomorrow then , said Pliny. By the way, that bean soup could have done with some tomatoes.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Should Have Bean Soup
What's for lunch? asked Pliny the Elder, looking up from whatever it was he was writing.
Nostradamus and I had bean soup. There's plenty left, would you like some?
Bean soup! Is this it? I thought you were starting an aquarium, he sniffed, staring hard at the plastic container half filled with what admittedly looked like little white and brown stones and some very murky water.
No thanks, he said firmly. I am with Pythagoras on the subject of ingesting beans. They dull the senses and induce dreams. Furthermore they contain the souls of the dead.
Pliny, I said, don't give me a hard time. I've had a difficult morning.
Oh, he said, why is that?
I'm trying to write a poem that rhymes in both French and English. At the same time I'm trying to figure out why this soup looks like the bottom of a river. Does that sound like a difficult morning?
Yes, said Pliny, my apologies. What shall I have then?
Nostradamus and I had bean soup. There's plenty left, would you like some?
Bean soup! Is this it? I thought you were starting an aquarium, he sniffed, staring hard at the plastic container half filled with what admittedly looked like little white and brown stones and some very murky water.
No thanks, he said firmly. I am with Pythagoras on the subject of ingesting beans. They dull the senses and induce dreams. Furthermore they contain the souls of the dead.
Pliny, I said, don't give me a hard time. I've had a difficult morning.
Oh, he said, why is that?
I'm trying to write a poem that rhymes in both French and English. At the same time I'm trying to figure out why this soup looks like the bottom of a river. Does that sound like a difficult morning?
Yes, said Pliny, my apologies. What shall I have then?
Friday, April 3, 2009
High Tension Wires
How did you and your mother enjoy the Lunch Hour Concert yesterday? asked Pliny the Elder.
She didn't turn up, I said. She had a flat battery.
Your mother? asked Pliny, with a comical expression.
Her car, I replied. She'd tried to call me but I had my phone switched off.
Failure all round, said Pliny. But I suppose you went on your own?
I did. All on my own. I bought some sushi and ate it under a crepe myrtle tree outside the hall. It was the best sushi ever but I gobbled it down really fast, because there were hordes of people pouring in.
What a shame, said Pliny. What kind of sushi was it?
Californian, I replied, the one with the seaweed on the inside and the rice on the outside, rolled in sesame seeds.
What is the idea behind that? asked Pliny.
Well, some people don't like the seaweed very much.
But you said the seaweed was inside.
Yes it is. Maybe they just don't like the look of the seaweed, or find it daunting, if they have a funny bite. Anyway, don't you want to know about the concert?
I do. What was it?
High Tension Wires, played by the Australian String Quartet. It was good, rhythmic, weird and quirky. I think it was probably even meant to be funny. The players looked very serious, but that may have been because the viola player was about 9 months pregnant and they weren't sure they would be able to finish.
Heavens! High Tension indeed! So, you think the music was meant to be about parturition?
I suppose so, but it made me think of chicken feet, and sushi.
She didn't turn up, I said. She had a flat battery.
Your mother? asked Pliny, with a comical expression.
Her car, I replied. She'd tried to call me but I had my phone switched off.
Failure all round, said Pliny. But I suppose you went on your own?
I did. All on my own. I bought some sushi and ate it under a crepe myrtle tree outside the hall. It was the best sushi ever but I gobbled it down really fast, because there were hordes of people pouring in.
What a shame, said Pliny. What kind of sushi was it?
Californian, I replied, the one with the seaweed on the inside and the rice on the outside, rolled in sesame seeds.
What is the idea behind that? asked Pliny.
Well, some people don't like the seaweed very much.
But you said the seaweed was inside.
Yes it is. Maybe they just don't like the look of the seaweed, or find it daunting, if they have a funny bite. Anyway, don't you want to know about the concert?
I do. What was it?
High Tension Wires, played by the Australian String Quartet. It was good, rhythmic, weird and quirky. I think it was probably even meant to be funny. The players looked very serious, but that may have been because the viola player was about 9 months pregnant and they weren't sure they would be able to finish.
Heavens! High Tension indeed! So, you think the music was meant to be about parturition?
I suppose so, but it made me think of chicken feet, and sushi.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Spicy Chicken Feet
Li Feng took me out to lunch yesterday. She picked me up in her golden car. We sailed down Magill Road listening to Chinese music. Music makes you come down, she said.
At Ding Hao we looked at the menu list. You tick the boxes next to the dishes you want to try. Li Feng invited me to choose, so I made some tentative suggestions. If she said NO GOOD, I chose another thing.
By this method we settled on King Prawn Balls, Steamed Chinese Donut Rice Pastry, Peanut Combination Dumpling, Tiny Chicken Buns and Custard Tart, but we needed one more for a grand pigout.
So I pointed to the Spicy Chicken Feet. I can't exactly reproduce the train of thought that led me to do that. Perhaps it wasn't a train, exactly. But Spicy Chicken Feet were agreed upon.
Spicy Chicken Feet are not that bad. They are glutinous certainly, bony for sure, and there is precious little meat in them. They have a kind of rubber toy-like appearance. You pick one up with your chopsticks and then commence combat. The spicy taste is good.
After lunch Li Feng took me by the Chinese chicken shop in Chinatown. You can buy chicken feet here, she said, if you want, and cook them yourself. I said I would like to, another time.
At home I looked up the recipe for Spicy Chicken Feet. First, cut off the nails.......
At Ding Hao we looked at the menu list. You tick the boxes next to the dishes you want to try. Li Feng invited me to choose, so I made some tentative suggestions. If she said NO GOOD, I chose another thing.
By this method we settled on King Prawn Balls, Steamed Chinese Donut Rice Pastry, Peanut Combination Dumpling, Tiny Chicken Buns and Custard Tart, but we needed one more for a grand pigout.
So I pointed to the Spicy Chicken Feet. I can't exactly reproduce the train of thought that led me to do that. Perhaps it wasn't a train, exactly. But Spicy Chicken Feet were agreed upon.
Spicy Chicken Feet are not that bad. They are glutinous certainly, bony for sure, and there is precious little meat in them. They have a kind of rubber toy-like appearance. You pick one up with your chopsticks and then commence combat. The spicy taste is good.
After lunch Li Feng took me by the Chinese chicken shop in Chinatown. You can buy chicken feet here, she said, if you want, and cook them yourself. I said I would like to, another time.
At home I looked up the recipe for Spicy Chicken Feet. First, cut off the nails.......
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Magical Snake Egg
Well, what is it? I asked him impatiently this morning.
What is what? he asked.
A wind egg, an ovum anguinem, whatever you like to call it, I replied.
Ah! yes. It goes by many names. The wind egg, the snake egg, the sea egg, the chalk egg. It was held in high regard by the Gauls, although not mentioned by the Greek writers. Many snakes twining together form a skilful ball using saliva from their throats, and foam from their bodies. The Druids say that the hissing of the snakes throws the ball into the air. The ball must be caught in a cloak, so it does not touch the ground. He who steals it must ride away quickly, for the snakes will follow him until he crosses a river. It is said that a genuine egg will float against the current of a stream, even if set in gold.
Whoa, Pliny! I said, this is too bizarre! Why would anyone want to steal one? Why would it be set in gold? And what has this got to do with the sea urchin?
Patience, said Pliny. The wind, or snake eggs were highly prized by the Gaulish people, for to possess one would grant access to princes, and ensure success in battle or legal disputes. Naturally, anyone possessing such a marvel would wish to set in in gold, to honour and protect it.
But, the sea urchin?
Well, said Pliny, I myself have seen one of these eggs. It was round, and about as large as a medium apple. The shell was cartilage, with many cup-marks like those on the arms of an octopus.
So you think it was really a sea urchin shell?
I think the Druids, unable to procure as many of these snake eggs as they desired, would use de-spined sea urchin shells in their stead. They also used to make a round bead, decorated with spirals and swirls, for the same purpose.
And were they really magical, do you think?
Certainly not. I recall the story of a certain Gaulish gentleman who carried one into court for good luck, and who lost the case because the judge thought he was trying to exert an undue influence.
What is what? he asked.
A wind egg, an ovum anguinem, whatever you like to call it, I replied.
Ah! yes. It goes by many names. The wind egg, the snake egg, the sea egg, the chalk egg. It was held in high regard by the Gauls, although not mentioned by the Greek writers. Many snakes twining together form a skilful ball using saliva from their throats, and foam from their bodies. The Druids say that the hissing of the snakes throws the ball into the air. The ball must be caught in a cloak, so it does not touch the ground. He who steals it must ride away quickly, for the snakes will follow him until he crosses a river. It is said that a genuine egg will float against the current of a stream, even if set in gold.
Whoa, Pliny! I said, this is too bizarre! Why would anyone want to steal one? Why would it be set in gold? And what has this got to do with the sea urchin?
Patience, said Pliny. The wind, or snake eggs were highly prized by the Gaulish people, for to possess one would grant access to princes, and ensure success in battle or legal disputes. Naturally, anyone possessing such a marvel would wish to set in in gold, to honour and protect it.
But, the sea urchin?
Well, said Pliny, I myself have seen one of these eggs. It was round, and about as large as a medium apple. The shell was cartilage, with many cup-marks like those on the arms of an octopus.
So you think it was really a sea urchin shell?
I think the Druids, unable to procure as many of these snake eggs as they desired, would use de-spined sea urchin shells in their stead. They also used to make a round bead, decorated with spirals and swirls, for the same purpose.
And were they really magical, do you think?
Certainly not. I recall the story of a certain Gaulish gentleman who carried one into court for good luck, and who lost the case because the judge thought he was trying to exert an undue influence.
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