I'm standing in the Commonwealth Bank in Norwood waiting for my turn. I'm listening to the man in front of me talking to the teller.
Busy? he asks her.
Yes, she says.
Good to see that some people are, he says.
She doesn't reply, but gets on with stamping his cheques.
I used to work once, he continues, but I didn't like it.
You prat, I think, looking closely at his back. He is about 55, florid, with thin stubbly hair on the top of his head, wearing very clean casual clothes.
The teller doesn't take the bait.
Do you know what a Public Servant is? he perseveres.
Yes, she says, I th...i...nk so. She is very young.
It means the public are your servant, he says.
She doesn't get it. She continues stamping and moving bits of paper.
I was having dinner with a teacher last night, he goes on. And she couldn't even multiply 12 by 20. She told me she was an ART teacher.
A pregnant pause.
I just feel sorry for the kids, he ends lamely.
Then it's time for him to go.
Bye, says the teller. Next, please.
I just feel sorry for all of us.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Neroli Jasmine
Do you like my new perfume? I asked Pliny the Elder this morning.
No, he replied, wrinkling his Roman nose. You smell like the emperor Nero.
Impossible, I said, offended. My new perfume is Neroli Jasmine. Neroli was invented by Anne Marie Orsini, Duchess of Bracciano and Princess of Nerola, in the 17th century. She used it to perfume her gloves and her bath. Neroli is the essence of the flower of the bitter orange, and it's named after her.
All perfume smells of excess and luxury to me, growled Pliny. A superfluous decadence! The emperor Nero used to perfume the soles of his feet. He sprayed fragrance down upon his dinner guests from pipes hidden in his ivory carved ceiling. He once accidentally asphyxiated one of his guests under a shower of rose petals.
So you don't approve the use of any sort of perfume, I ventured.
I don't, and I blame the practice on the Egyptians. Myrrh, frankincense, thyme, marjoram, lavender, lily, rosemary, peppermint, cedar, rose, aloe, olive oil, sesame oil, almond oil, cinnamon, saffron and balsam, all were known to them. They used to place a cone of scented grease on the heads of guests at a dinner party. The grease melted and trickled down their necks. They thought it increased their brain power. They also thought it useful in the prevention of drunkenness.
Really? I said, pricking up my ears. I wonder if it worked?
No, he said. I think we can safely say it did not.
No, he replied, wrinkling his Roman nose. You smell like the emperor Nero.
Impossible, I said, offended. My new perfume is Neroli Jasmine. Neroli was invented by Anne Marie Orsini, Duchess of Bracciano and Princess of Nerola, in the 17th century. She used it to perfume her gloves and her bath. Neroli is the essence of the flower of the bitter orange, and it's named after her.
All perfume smells of excess and luxury to me, growled Pliny. A superfluous decadence! The emperor Nero used to perfume the soles of his feet. He sprayed fragrance down upon his dinner guests from pipes hidden in his ivory carved ceiling. He once accidentally asphyxiated one of his guests under a shower of rose petals.
So you don't approve the use of any sort of perfume, I ventured.
I don't, and I blame the practice on the Egyptians. Myrrh, frankincense, thyme, marjoram, lavender, lily, rosemary, peppermint, cedar, rose, aloe, olive oil, sesame oil, almond oil, cinnamon, saffron and balsam, all were known to them. They used to place a cone of scented grease on the heads of guests at a dinner party. The grease melted and trickled down their necks. They thought it increased their brain power. They also thought it useful in the prevention of drunkenness.
Really? I said, pricking up my ears. I wonder if it worked?
No, he said. I think we can safely say it did not.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Not yet knowing
she walks with a companion through the park
to buy perfume now her sense of smell is back;
in store for her, an unlocking of time.
forgotten the logic of perfume,
the meaning, the choosing of the memory
and the glamour of the name.
locked in glass cabinets guarded by dragons
elizabeth taylor charlie fire and ice
tabu.
in body shop the staff ignore the customers,
dressed as americans
giggling in a corner.
she tries white musk,
white musk with iris,
neroli jasmine and vanilla bean.
the companion's nose agrees
with her nose
neroli is nicest
in the the park
under the bridge
the ducks sniff the air.
she drifts by
not yet knowing
it's the right one.
to buy perfume now her sense of smell is back;
in store for her, an unlocking of time.
forgotten the logic of perfume,
the meaning, the choosing of the memory
and the glamour of the name.
locked in glass cabinets guarded by dragons
elizabeth taylor charlie fire and ice
tabu.
in body shop the staff ignore the customers,
dressed as americans
giggling in a corner.
she tries white musk,
white musk with iris,
neroli jasmine and vanilla bean.
the companion's nose agrees
with her nose
neroli is nicest
in the the park
under the bridge
the ducks sniff the air.
she drifts by
not yet knowing
it's the right one.
At Their Feet
Pliny and her mum went to a Lunch Hour Concert yesterday. They had spent so long having lunch that the only place they could get two seats together was on the front row. The front row is good for some things though. You get a direct and close up view of the performers' legs and feet.
The Adelaide Chamber Legs and Feet played two beautiful and seasonally appropriate pieces, the first being the Serenade for Strings by Elgar and the second being the Serenade for Strings by Tchaikovsky. Legs and Feet, understandably, like to have two of everything.
Elgar's Serenade was about a river. The Legs and Feet dipped their toes in and played. All in all there were thirty four Legs, and thirty four Feet. The Feet were a variety of ladies' and gentlemen's Feet. The ladies' Feet were clad in flat black shoes, flat glittery shoes, or high heeled gold strappy sandals. Between the sole of the sandal and the big toe of the right Foot of the first violin, a tiny hair floated, lyrically. The gentlemen's Feet sustained heavy black shoes of varying degrees of pointedness. All the feet swayed serenely as Elgar's river flowed to its lilting conclusion.
Tchaikovsky's Serenade was a slow introduction to trousers. What infinite variety is to be found in human trousers! Even when they are all of necessity black. There were rhythmic and energetic trousers of every possible length, up to and including the length at which they may no longer be called trousers, but lightly skipping Capri pants. At the other end of the scale were trousers that were so long and muted that the shoes were hardly visible. During the Serenade, the tiny hair which had been under the toe of the first violin, disappeared and reappeared on the trousers of the second violin, in a wistful mood.
I have not yet mentioned the skirts, at least one of which was very Russian in character. With skirts, in the spring, come visible Legs. These were very white and exhibited a great purity of tone.
When it was over the Legs and Feet got a standing ovation from a man in a red jumper, and a decent clap from Pliny and her mum. It was good sitting on the front row, said Pliny's mum. I loved seeing the face of the cellist, it was so expressive.
Face? wondered Pliny.
The Adelaide Chamber Legs and Feet played two beautiful and seasonally appropriate pieces, the first being the Serenade for Strings by Elgar and the second being the Serenade for Strings by Tchaikovsky. Legs and Feet, understandably, like to have two of everything.
Elgar's Serenade was about a river. The Legs and Feet dipped their toes in and played. All in all there were thirty four Legs, and thirty four Feet. The Feet were a variety of ladies' and gentlemen's Feet. The ladies' Feet were clad in flat black shoes, flat glittery shoes, or high heeled gold strappy sandals. Between the sole of the sandal and the big toe of the right Foot of the first violin, a tiny hair floated, lyrically. The gentlemen's Feet sustained heavy black shoes of varying degrees of pointedness. All the feet swayed serenely as Elgar's river flowed to its lilting conclusion.
Tchaikovsky's Serenade was a slow introduction to trousers. What infinite variety is to be found in human trousers! Even when they are all of necessity black. There were rhythmic and energetic trousers of every possible length, up to and including the length at which they may no longer be called trousers, but lightly skipping Capri pants. At the other end of the scale were trousers that were so long and muted that the shoes were hardly visible. During the Serenade, the tiny hair which had been under the toe of the first violin, disappeared and reappeared on the trousers of the second violin, in a wistful mood.
I have not yet mentioned the skirts, at least one of which was very Russian in character. With skirts, in the spring, come visible Legs. These were very white and exhibited a great purity of tone.
When it was over the Legs and Feet got a standing ovation from a man in a red jumper, and a decent clap from Pliny and her mum. It was good sitting on the front row, said Pliny's mum. I loved seeing the face of the cellist, it was so expressive.
Face? wondered Pliny.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Reinterpreting the Past
There, said Pliny the Elder, I told you Plato wouldn't have much idea of a real bicycle.
Yes, I agreed, but you must admit he talked his way out of the situation quite well.
He certainly did, said Pliny. Philosophers are like that. They can wriggle out of anything just by changing the meaning of words. Give me natural history any day. You know where you are with it. Something is either true or it isn't.
Mmm, I said doubtfully. Some of the things you wrote in yours are difficult to put in either category.
Nonsense, said Pliny. They were either true or not true at the time, that is what matters.
I know what you mean, Pliny, I nodded. Remember the artist who made the paper boats out of the encyclopedias? Well, one of the other things she did was to spend a whole year sandpapering the text from a set of thirty two Time-Life World Library books from the 1960s, leaving only the photographs. They were on display at the exhibition too. It was the most extraordinary thing, to see all these books with the text so painstakingly removed. It forced you to reinterpret the photographs.
What has that to do with my works? asked Pliny, suspiciously. I didn't include any photographs.
Yes, I agreed, but you must admit he talked his way out of the situation quite well.
He certainly did, said Pliny. Philosophers are like that. They can wriggle out of anything just by changing the meaning of words. Give me natural history any day. You know where you are with it. Something is either true or it isn't.
Mmm, I said doubtfully. Some of the things you wrote in yours are difficult to put in either category.
Nonsense, said Pliny. They were either true or not true at the time, that is what matters.
I know what you mean, Pliny, I nodded. Remember the artist who made the paper boats out of the encyclopedias? Well, one of the other things she did was to spend a whole year sandpapering the text from a set of thirty two Time-Life World Library books from the 1960s, leaving only the photographs. They were on display at the exhibition too. It was the most extraordinary thing, to see all these books with the text so painstakingly removed. It forced you to reinterpret the photographs.
What has that to do with my works? asked Pliny, suspiciously. I didn't include any photographs.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
A Platonic Bicycle
Hello friends! Le Bon David here. We had an avalanche of responses after the VeloDrone's story last week. Now those responses have created a further controversy. You demanded to know how Plato could have owned a bicycle. Well, I caught up with Plato yesteday and put the question to him:
Le Bon David: May I say, sir, that it is an honour to meet you. You are a man I have long admired.
Plato: The honor is mine, sir. I have been a keen reader of Velosophy since it's inception.
Le Bon David: Very kind words, sir, very kind. Now let us get straight to the point. Have you or have you not at any time owned an actual bicycle?
Plato: First, my friend, I must make it clear that just as all my ideas come from the wise and venerable Socrates, so the bicycle, such as it was, belonged to him.
Le Bon David: Pray, continue.
Plato: Therefore when I say I had a bicycle, I mean to say that Socrates had a bicycle. And when I say that the bicycle caught fire, I mean to say that Socrates' bicycle caught fire. And when I say that it was hardly ideal, I mean to repeat a little witticism coined by Socrates himself.
Le Bon David: May I say, sir, that it is an honour to meet you. You are a man I have long admired.
Plato: The honor is mine, sir. I have been a keen reader of Velosophy since it's inception.
Le Bon David: Very kind words, sir, very kind. Now let us get straight to the point. Have you or have you not at any time owned an actual bicycle?
Plato: First, my friend, I must make it clear that just as all my ideas come from the wise and venerable Socrates, so the bicycle, such as it was, belonged to him.
Le Bon David: Pray, continue.
Plato: Therefore when I say I had a bicycle, I mean to say that Socrates had a bicycle. And when I say that the bicycle caught fire, I mean to say that Socrates' bicycle caught fire. And when I say that it was hardly ideal, I mean to repeat a little witticism coined by Socrates himself.
Le Bon David: I see. Then the question is, was Socrates' bicycle a real bicycle?
Plato: No, it was an ideal bicycle. That is, he conceived of the bicycle by philosophical means. For as you know there were no actual bicycles in ancient Greece. We had wheels on our chariots and carts, but we had not invented steering, nor the pedal, nor had we thought of placing one wheel behind the other, until one day when something happened deep inside Socrates' cave.
Le Bon David: Intriguing! What was that?
Plato: A large log placed somewhat precariously on the top of the fire suddenly collapsed and fell to the floor of the cave where it continued burning, with the result that there were now two fires burning side by side. Now as you know, Socrates used to sit near the entrance of the cave, dreaming up ideal objects and imagining what they would look like.
Le Bon David: Did he indeed? I should have thought that would be somewhat unproductive.
Plato: No, no. He had, in fact just dreamed up an ideal sort of wheel. When the fire suddenly divided into two fires, all the other people in the cave........
Le Bon David: Other people in the cave?
Plato: Yes, yes, prisoners remember? In the allegory they represent the general public, who do not know how to philosophise.
Le Bon David: Ah yes, I do remember.
Plato: So, the other people in the cave, who were sitting looking at the shadows thrown up on the wall by the objects that were passing in front of the fire behind them .....are you with me?
Le Bon David: No, what objects are these?
Plato: You would have to ask Socrates. But I believe he used to try and demonstrate his ideas using his fingers as puppets. I know he used to do an awfully realistic rabbit.
Le Bon David: So what happened that day?
Plato: Well! The people were looking at Socrates' finger wheel, not being particularly excited by it, when all at once they saw the shadows of two wheels one in front of the other, and they began shouting at once. Look Socrates! You've made a bicycle! And that was the beginning of it.
Le Bon David: The idea caught fire, so to speak!
Plato: Yes, my friend, I believe you have understood me perfectly.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Boat People
Pliny the Elder is admiring my little paper boats. These are admirable, he says.
Thanks, I say, I learned how to make them last Saturday when I went to an art exhibition at the Samstag Museum.
Under what circumstances did you learn to make them? asks he.
There was a woman sitting at a large wooden table making paper boats from pages she'd torn from a set of leather bound encyclopedias piled up in front of her. She asked me if I'd like to make one, and when I said yes she showed me how.
This seems to me an unjustifiable desecration of a valuable book, says Pliny, with a frown.
But, says I, it can be justified. The woman, who was not the artist, by the way, but was acting according to the artist's instructions, told me that the artist was very concerned with the issue of boat people, and the boats were being made to represent them in some way.
Why use the encyclopedia? asks Pliny, unconvinced.
Because, I say, it represents the collected wisdom of the Western World, which for all its wonderfulness has not taught us compassion, and because its jolly nice quality paper and quite fun to fold. Also if you think about it encyclopedias are pretty well defunct these days.
Humph! humphs Pliny. I still think she could have used some other kind of paper. I notice you yourself have made your paper boats out of some old invoices and a shopping docket.
Well, I don't have an encyclopedia, I say. And I'm blowed if I was going to tear up my beloved dictionary.
Thanks, I say, I learned how to make them last Saturday when I went to an art exhibition at the Samstag Museum.
Under what circumstances did you learn to make them? asks he.
There was a woman sitting at a large wooden table making paper boats from pages she'd torn from a set of leather bound encyclopedias piled up in front of her. She asked me if I'd like to make one, and when I said yes she showed me how.
This seems to me an unjustifiable desecration of a valuable book, says Pliny, with a frown.
But, says I, it can be justified. The woman, who was not the artist, by the way, but was acting according to the artist's instructions, told me that the artist was very concerned with the issue of boat people, and the boats were being made to represent them in some way.
Why use the encyclopedia? asks Pliny, unconvinced.
Because, I say, it represents the collected wisdom of the Western World, which for all its wonderfulness has not taught us compassion, and because its jolly nice quality paper and quite fun to fold. Also if you think about it encyclopedias are pretty well defunct these days.
Humph! humphs Pliny. I still think she could have used some other kind of paper. I notice you yourself have made your paper boats out of some old invoices and a shopping docket.
Well, I don't have an encyclopedia, I say. And I'm blowed if I was going to tear up my beloved dictionary.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Wheels on Fire
So what do you understand by the term non sequitur? I asked Pliny, a little later on.
By that I mean a statement that does not follow logically from the one that came before, he replied.
And what kind of bicycle did you use to ride when you were young? I continued.
Yes, that's the idea. Although yours was not a statement but a question.
That's because I was changing the subject, not trying to give you an example.
Oh. Well, you should know that there were no bicycles in ancient Rome. And so I didn't have one.
Ah! I wondered why you didn't add a comment to the VeloDrone's wall the other day. How do you explain the fact that Plato did, then?
Plato! What did he write?
He wrote that his bicycle used to catch on fire, which was less than ideal.
You need to take everything that Plato writes with a grain of salt. It doesn't matter what it is, he will always claim he's got one.
Like those Ebay ads?
Yes. It's his way of trying to promote his Cave Allegory, and his theory of ideal forms. There's no reason why he shouldn't have seen an ideal bicycle go trundling by and casting a shadow on the wall of the cave, I suppose. And if it came too near the fire, well.......
But where would he have got the concept?
That's just the point. He didn't need the concept. The world of ideals exists separately from the world of ordinary things.
OK then, but having seen it how would he have known what it was?
Who's to say that he knew what it was?
By that I mean a statement that does not follow logically from the one that came before, he replied.
And what kind of bicycle did you use to ride when you were young? I continued.
Yes, that's the idea. Although yours was not a statement but a question.
That's because I was changing the subject, not trying to give you an example.
Oh. Well, you should know that there were no bicycles in ancient Rome. And so I didn't have one.
Ah! I wondered why you didn't add a comment to the VeloDrone's wall the other day. How do you explain the fact that Plato did, then?
Plato! What did he write?
He wrote that his bicycle used to catch on fire, which was less than ideal.
You need to take everything that Plato writes with a grain of salt. It doesn't matter what it is, he will always claim he's got one.
Like those Ebay ads?
Yes. It's his way of trying to promote his Cave Allegory, and his theory of ideal forms. There's no reason why he shouldn't have seen an ideal bicycle go trundling by and casting a shadow on the wall of the cave, I suppose. And if it came too near the fire, well.......
But where would he have got the concept?
That's just the point. He didn't need the concept. The world of ideals exists separately from the world of ordinary things.
OK then, but having seen it how would he have known what it was?
Who's to say that he knew what it was?
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Non Sequiturs
Just what do you mean by the term coincidence? asked Pliny the Elder.
What do you mean by it? I countered.
I mean a noteworthy event that occurs in conjunction with another event such as to suggest a connection of cause and effect, although no apparent connection of the kind exists.
Alright, I agree with that, I said. Why do you ask?
Because, he said, you called your blog yesterday Coincidences on a Windy Day, and yet it seemed to me to consist of a series of non sequiturs.
Well, think again, I said. There were at least three. The man up the tree and the koala up the tree. Coincidence. The wind and the Wind Ensemble. Coincidence. The lady spotting the koala and the fact that she was about to knock on our front door. Coincidence.
It is you who must think again, said Pliny. The first two are merely correspondences. The third consists of two unrelated events.
Not unrelated, I said. The lady related the events. Therein lies the coincidence. And there's something else you don't know. She said she only noticed the koala because she'd seen a man taking a photo of something up in the tree.
When was this? asked Pliny.
About 5 o'clock, I answered. Why? Oh my goodness! Don't tell me it was you?
No, said Pliny. It wasn't.
What do you mean by it? I countered.
I mean a noteworthy event that occurs in conjunction with another event such as to suggest a connection of cause and effect, although no apparent connection of the kind exists.
Alright, I agree with that, I said. Why do you ask?
Because, he said, you called your blog yesterday Coincidences on a Windy Day, and yet it seemed to me to consist of a series of non sequiturs.
Well, think again, I said. There were at least three. The man up the tree and the koala up the tree. Coincidence. The wind and the Wind Ensemble. Coincidence. The lady spotting the koala and the fact that she was about to knock on our front door. Coincidence.
It is you who must think again, said Pliny. The first two are merely correspondences. The third consists of two unrelated events.
Not unrelated, I said. The lady related the events. Therein lies the coincidence. And there's something else you don't know. She said she only noticed the koala because she'd seen a man taking a photo of something up in the tree.
When was this? asked Pliny.
About 5 o'clock, I answered. Why? Oh my goodness! Don't tell me it was you?
No, said Pliny. It wasn't.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Coincidences on a Windy Day
Friday was windy. It was also the day I got a Radio Listening Diary.
In the morning I walked down Magill Road on my way into town to attend a concert. Naturally I was on the footpath. Ahead of me was a tree. Up in the tree a man was cutting down branches and dropping them onto the path. I decided to cross the road to avoid danger, but found it impossible due to the traffic, of which there was a lot. The man up in the tree stopped cutting branches. I proceeded along the footpath under a shower of white sawdust and a gust of wind.
The concert was performed by the Wind Ensemble.
When, hours later, I was at home, the doorbell rang. It was a lady called Margaret, whom I did not know. She was dressed in a red crocheted hat, a large multistriped jumper, beige pants and a lanyard, and carried a yellow envelope. Do you know there is a koala in the tree outside your house? she said. No. We went to have a look, and there was.
But this was not why Margaret was here. She worked for Nielsen Polling and was seeking someone to take part in a Radio Listening Poll. Due to my recent birthday, the someone would be me.
She showed me how to fill in an immensely complex form marking off the times I listen to the radio over the next 8 days. I don't listen to the radio much, I said. Then it will be easy, she replied.
So far it has been. But I am already beginning to notice little skewing things I am being tempted to do, like fix the radio in the kitchen by placing 6 heavy books on top of it. It still doesn't work though. Nielsen would be glad, if they knew.
As for the koala, it was gone by the morning. Perhaps it was the wrong sort of tree.
In the morning I walked down Magill Road on my way into town to attend a concert. Naturally I was on the footpath. Ahead of me was a tree. Up in the tree a man was cutting down branches and dropping them onto the path. I decided to cross the road to avoid danger, but found it impossible due to the traffic, of which there was a lot. The man up in the tree stopped cutting branches. I proceeded along the footpath under a shower of white sawdust and a gust of wind.
The concert was performed by the Wind Ensemble.
When, hours later, I was at home, the doorbell rang. It was a lady called Margaret, whom I did not know. She was dressed in a red crocheted hat, a large multistriped jumper, beige pants and a lanyard, and carried a yellow envelope. Do you know there is a koala in the tree outside your house? she said. No. We went to have a look, and there was.
But this was not why Margaret was here. She worked for Nielsen Polling and was seeking someone to take part in a Radio Listening Poll. Due to my recent birthday, the someone would be me.
She showed me how to fill in an immensely complex form marking off the times I listen to the radio over the next 8 days. I don't listen to the radio much, I said. Then it will be easy, she replied.
So far it has been. But I am already beginning to notice little skewing things I am being tempted to do, like fix the radio in the kitchen by placing 6 heavy books on top of it. It still doesn't work though. Nielsen would be glad, if they knew.
As for the koala, it was gone by the morning. Perhaps it was the wrong sort of tree.
Friday, August 21, 2009
On The VeloDrone's Wall
Great response from readers of the VeloDrone yesterday! Here's just a sample:
Hi VeloDrone! Love the name of your bicycle. I used to call mine The Flying Dutchman. Don't know where it is now. Richard Wagner.
VeloDrone! Interesting you should see your bike Candide as female, when the Candide of your novel was a young man. Sigmund Freud.
My own bicycle was a Utilitarian. J S Mill.
My bike was always catching fire. Not ideal. Plato.
Good article VeloDrone! I used to share a bicycle with Engels. It was the community bike. We rode her into a wall. Karl Marx.
Way to go VeloDrone! Candide is tops! I had a bike in the old days, I called her The Holy Ghost. Boy, she was fast. Blink and you missed her. John the Baptist.
My bike was an Epistemological Nihilist. Denied all knowledge, always getting me lost. Dr Livingstone.
Mine was an Enigma. I rode her till her chain fell off. Alan Turing
A talking bicycle. Wish I had one! Alberto Contador.
Boys! Boys! They're only bicycles! Germaine Greer.
Hi VeloDrone! Love the name of your bicycle. I used to call mine The Flying Dutchman. Don't know where it is now. Richard Wagner.
VeloDrone! Interesting you should see your bike Candide as female, when the Candide of your novel was a young man. Sigmund Freud.
My own bicycle was a Utilitarian. J S Mill.
My bike was always catching fire. Not ideal. Plato.
Good article VeloDrone! I used to share a bicycle with Engels. It was the community bike. We rode her into a wall. Karl Marx.
Way to go VeloDrone! Candide is tops! I had a bike in the old days, I called her The Holy Ghost. Boy, she was fast. Blink and you missed her. John the Baptist.
My bike was an Epistemological Nihilist. Denied all knowledge, always getting me lost. Dr Livingstone.
Mine was an Enigma. I rode her till her chain fell off. Alan Turing
A talking bicycle. Wish I had one! Alberto Contador.
Boys! Boys! They're only bicycles! Germaine Greer.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
The VeloDrone on Candide
Greetings my friends. The VeloDrone, aka Voltaire, here once again to amuse you with some philosophical ramblings from the velosophere!
Nihilism is a pet subject of mine. No doubt you all remember Candide! No, not my famous novel, but my famous bicycle of the same name.
Ah Candide! She was a nihilist for sure. Not a Moral Nihilist. No, no. She had very strict opinions about right and wrong. It was wrong for me to ride her when she had a flat tyre for instance. It was wrong to ride her when it was raining. Fortunately we generally agreed on these matters.
Nor was she an Existential Nihilist. She knew that she existed. My wheels turn, she would say, therefore I am. What about when your wheels stop turning, Candide? I would ask. That simply means I have halted, she would say. I could not argue with that, especially when we stopped at the traffic lights.
Was she then an Epistemological Nihilist? I doubt she even knew the meaning of the term. This is perhaps a little amusing, as it means the denial of all knowledge. But one should not laugh at la belle Candide, if one does not know the meaning of it oneself.
As to being a Metaphysical Nihilist, and believing that no objects might exist at all, no, no, my Candide was well aware of the existence of other objects. Did she not most frequently encounter them on the road? And she could hardly deny the all too solid existence of myself.
Candide was, I believe, that most rare form of nihilist, the Mereological Nihilist. That is, she denied the existence of proper parts, particularly in regard to herself. She would never admit to needing anything new, be it a new tyre, a new chain, even a touch of oil. Her brakes were a screeching disaster. And she soon became a patched-up bucket of rust. Gradually she ceased to function as a bicycle, but did she care? No. She now spends her days, as we say, cultivating my garden.
That's all from me for this week! Next week, Le Bon David will take up his pen for your entertainment. Au revoir, mes amis!
Nihilism is a pet subject of mine. No doubt you all remember Candide! No, not my famous novel, but my famous bicycle of the same name.
Ah Candide! She was a nihilist for sure. Not a Moral Nihilist. No, no. She had very strict opinions about right and wrong. It was wrong for me to ride her when she had a flat tyre for instance. It was wrong to ride her when it was raining. Fortunately we generally agreed on these matters.
Nor was she an Existential Nihilist. She knew that she existed. My wheels turn, she would say, therefore I am. What about when your wheels stop turning, Candide? I would ask. That simply means I have halted, she would say. I could not argue with that, especially when we stopped at the traffic lights.
Was she then an Epistemological Nihilist? I doubt she even knew the meaning of the term. This is perhaps a little amusing, as it means the denial of all knowledge. But one should not laugh at la belle Candide, if one does not know the meaning of it oneself.
As to being a Metaphysical Nihilist, and believing that no objects might exist at all, no, no, my Candide was well aware of the existence of other objects. Did she not most frequently encounter them on the road? And she could hardly deny the all too solid existence of myself.
Candide was, I believe, that most rare form of nihilist, the Mereological Nihilist. That is, she denied the existence of proper parts, particularly in regard to herself. She would never admit to needing anything new, be it a new tyre, a new chain, even a touch of oil. Her brakes were a screeching disaster. And she soon became a patched-up bucket of rust. Gradually she ceased to function as a bicycle, but did she care? No. She now spends her days, as we say, cultivating my garden.
That's all from me for this week! Next week, Le Bon David will take up his pen for your entertainment. Au revoir, mes amis!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The Twitter Purist
The Twitter Purist. That's me. One of the people I follow, potty4, posted a link to a site that analyses your Twitter feed and tell you what sort of Twitterer you are.
This is just the sort of thing that regularly saves potty4's bacon. He follows me. He must have obtained me as part of a job lot. He tweets about rural politics and sugar and the price of fruit, and he's a local. In his photo he looks like Rolf Harris. And like Rolf Harris, he is serially boring.
However, twice now I have just been about to unfollow him, when he posts something cool like the abovementioned. I fed in my username. And almost at once the results came back. You are a Twitter Purist.
I am, it tells me, the considerate type, who believes in playing by the rules. I like using Twitter as it was intended. I am polite and always answer the question What are you doing? My ideal city is Geneva and I should drive a white car. It even told me the type of car. A Nissan Micra. Is that a real car? Hmm.
I didn't think I was a Twitter Purist. I have never even sent anyone a direct message. Nor has anyone ever sent me one, except for Bob Brown, the leader of the Greens. He said, 'Thank you for following me.'
Yesterday I found I had a new follower. It was cnnpoliticsnews. They must have obtained me as part of a job lot. I decided not to follow them back. Is that not absurd and delightful? Cnnpoliticsnews is following me, but I am not following them.
I wonder what they thought of my last Tweet which was, if I recall, I don't think my great Granny would have recognised a zucchini.
Tomorrow I will probably find I'm being followed by the Zucchini Growers Association of North Carolina.
This is just the sort of thing that regularly saves potty4's bacon. He follows me. He must have obtained me as part of a job lot. He tweets about rural politics and sugar and the price of fruit, and he's a local. In his photo he looks like Rolf Harris. And like Rolf Harris, he is serially boring.
However, twice now I have just been about to unfollow him, when he posts something cool like the abovementioned. I fed in my username. And almost at once the results came back. You are a Twitter Purist.
I am, it tells me, the considerate type, who believes in playing by the rules. I like using Twitter as it was intended. I am polite and always answer the question What are you doing? My ideal city is Geneva and I should drive a white car. It even told me the type of car. A Nissan Micra. Is that a real car? Hmm.
I didn't think I was a Twitter Purist. I have never even sent anyone a direct message. Nor has anyone ever sent me one, except for Bob Brown, the leader of the Greens. He said, 'Thank you for following me.'
Yesterday I found I had a new follower. It was cnnpoliticsnews. They must have obtained me as part of a job lot. I decided not to follow them back. Is that not absurd and delightful? Cnnpoliticsnews is following me, but I am not following them.
I wonder what they thought of my last Tweet which was, if I recall, I don't think my great Granny would have recognised a zucchini.
Tomorrow I will probably find I'm being followed by the Zucchini Growers Association of North Carolina.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Samphire Part 3
Samphire, said Pliny the Elder. I know it well. It is also known as batis, and crithmum. The name samphire is an English mispronunciation of l'herbe de Saint Pierre. It was the herb that Hecate fed to Theseus before he faced the Minotaur.
Golly, I said. What's in it?
I believe it is high in vitamins A and C, also iodine, calcium, bromine, iron and trace minerals.
So it really is good for you. How come I never heard of it before?
Perhaps you have, it goes under many names. Sea asparagus, salicornia, glasswort, sea beans, chicken claws, rock fennel, sea fennel, beachwort, pickleweed, turtleweed, saimbhir ( in Gaelic) marine cress, herbe-a-crabes, and reef banana, to name a few.
No I haven't. Reef banana! I thought it was meant to be salty.
There is no accounting for taste. However I have heard that the Seri use it in Mexico to sweeten their coffee.
Astonishing, Pliny! What else do people use it for?
Besides eating it, you mean? It is used as a treatment for goitre, syphilis, ulcers, psoriasis, asthma, menstrual pain, constipation, rheumatism and gout. It is a good source of soda and can be used to make soap. The soap is called lye soap, and may easily take off your skin as well as the dirt. A cholesterol-free oil can be obtained from the seeds, and a protein rich flour from the meal, Dried, it makes good animal fodder, and it can also be converted to particle board or pressed into logs for the fire.
I can't believe I never knew.
Where did you say you found it?
Port Noarlunga.
You should have brought some home.
Oh no, it's bound to be protected.
Golly, I said. What's in it?
I believe it is high in vitamins A and C, also iodine, calcium, bromine, iron and trace minerals.
So it really is good for you. How come I never heard of it before?
Perhaps you have, it goes under many names. Sea asparagus, salicornia, glasswort, sea beans, chicken claws, rock fennel, sea fennel, beachwort, pickleweed, turtleweed, saimbhir ( in Gaelic) marine cress, herbe-a-crabes, and reef banana, to name a few.
No I haven't. Reef banana! I thought it was meant to be salty.
There is no accounting for taste. However I have heard that the Seri use it in Mexico to sweeten their coffee.
Astonishing, Pliny! What else do people use it for?
Besides eating it, you mean? It is used as a treatment for goitre, syphilis, ulcers, psoriasis, asthma, menstrual pain, constipation, rheumatism and gout. It is a good source of soda and can be used to make soap. The soap is called lye soap, and may easily take off your skin as well as the dirt. A cholesterol-free oil can be obtained from the seeds, and a protein rich flour from the meal, Dried, it makes good animal fodder, and it can also be converted to particle board or pressed into logs for the fire.
I can't believe I never knew.
Where did you say you found it?
Port Noarlunga.
You should have brought some home.
Oh no, it's bound to be protected.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Samphire Part 2
I'm back. Yes, it only seems a moment since I left. Where are we? By the river, heading east amongst the yellow flowers.
But now there's a bend in the river. We're heading south, still following the narrow trail along the river's edge. Here it looks a little dangerous. Is there anything under this path? Probably not. And you wouldn't want to fall in, would you. Mind that grey thorn bush, with the deadly sulphurous glow.
On the other side of the river are some fenced-off fields and under a line of trees in the distance a row of white beehives that turn out to be pelicans.
Now I suppose you expect me to know the names of some of these trees and bushes. I know, but I can't tell you which is which. There are Pink Gum, Red Gum, Blue Gum, Grey Box, Peppermint Box, Mallee Box, Golden Wattle, Prickly Wattle, Sheoak, Native Pine and Feral Olive to name a few. What's that one? That's what I want to know. It looks like discoloured broccoli growing out of an exploded newspaper. And that one? I don't know.
We've been walking long enough now, time to head back to the estuarine mudflats where I shall impress you by knowing something after all. Come on.
See all this greeny browny succulent stuff with red tips? This is called samphire. There are two types of samphire that grow here, Grey Samphire and Black Seeded Samphire. And guess what? You can eat it. Steamed or like a salad. In your dreams.
Now we're back at the wooden steps. We're crossing the empty oval. Now were at Britain Drive with the dead aloes, and the rather new houses. A couple are sitting high on their patio drinking tea. Here's the playground. Full of kids.
But now there's a bend in the river. We're heading south, still following the narrow trail along the river's edge. Here it looks a little dangerous. Is there anything under this path? Probably not. And you wouldn't want to fall in, would you. Mind that grey thorn bush, with the deadly sulphurous glow.
On the other side of the river are some fenced-off fields and under a line of trees in the distance a row of white beehives that turn out to be pelicans.
Now I suppose you expect me to know the names of some of these trees and bushes. I know, but I can't tell you which is which. There are Pink Gum, Red Gum, Blue Gum, Grey Box, Peppermint Box, Mallee Box, Golden Wattle, Prickly Wattle, Sheoak, Native Pine and Feral Olive to name a few. What's that one? That's what I want to know. It looks like discoloured broccoli growing out of an exploded newspaper. And that one? I don't know.
We've been walking long enough now, time to head back to the estuarine mudflats where I shall impress you by knowing something after all. Come on.
See all this greeny browny succulent stuff with red tips? This is called samphire. There are two types of samphire that grow here, Grey Samphire and Black Seeded Samphire. And guess what? You can eat it. Steamed or like a salad. In your dreams.
Now we're back at the wooden steps. We're crossing the empty oval. Now were at Britain Drive with the dead aloes, and the rather new houses. A couple are sitting high on their patio drinking tea. Here's the playground. Full of kids.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Samphire Part One
Today I'm going to take you on a walk, through the Onkaparinga River Recreation Park, at Port Noarlunga.
We'll start at the carpark in front of the playground with the wooden castle, and the picnicking families eating their lunch. Behind us is Saltfleet Street, the Onkaparinga River, the sand dunes and the sea, but we're not going that way. No. It's too windy.
We're going to the northern end of the playground, over the grass, to Britain Drive, along Britain Drive, past cliffs bristling with dying aloes, below clifftop houses that look rather new. Britain Drive ends in a football oval, at the entrance to which is a sentry box and a dusty blue chair.
We'll cross the oval and walk to a break in the fence on the far side where a sign will warn us not to think of swimming in the water. We will not have been thinking of it. Particularly as we have just passed a sign warning us that asbestos might be there.
We find some wooden steps leading down to the mudflats, and a trail leading south through the wetlands. Down the steps, banked with yellow soursobs. Today we shall call them oxalis. No we shan't, that's a bit too pretentious.
The mudflats are covered with the green, brown and red-tipped succulent you don't know the name of. Neither do I. It's repellant and beautiful at the same time. The estuaries glint like flat sardine tin lids. There are not many birds and two of them are seagulls. Do you agree that if you take off your sunglasses it looks more colourful here? A richness of orange, purple and black that you hadn't noticed when you had them on?
The trail we're following is narrow. Damp mud drying into curled up squares of clay. Grey, and sloppy in parts. Let's go off to the right a bit, to slightly higher ground, where the soursobs are.
What are these bushes? Don't you know, either? They're broken, tight and scratchy, half dead, or all dead. Angry-faced black gumnuts on a dead branch. Crispy curly brown seed pods under crispy curly leaves. Gum trees. Gum trees. And yet it doesn't look bad.
Where's the river? There. We're just coming up to it. Its wide here, and flowing backwards. On the other side are people fishing. Look at our little trail now. It's as wide as a human foot, with green and yellow oxalis knee high on both sides.
I'm going to leave you now. Just wait here, I'll be back in 24 hours. It won't seem like that to you though. And when I return, I'll know the names of some of those bushes and trees.
We'll start at the carpark in front of the playground with the wooden castle, and the picnicking families eating their lunch. Behind us is Saltfleet Street, the Onkaparinga River, the sand dunes and the sea, but we're not going that way. No. It's too windy.
We're going to the northern end of the playground, over the grass, to Britain Drive, along Britain Drive, past cliffs bristling with dying aloes, below clifftop houses that look rather new. Britain Drive ends in a football oval, at the entrance to which is a sentry box and a dusty blue chair.
We'll cross the oval and walk to a break in the fence on the far side where a sign will warn us not to think of swimming in the water. We will not have been thinking of it. Particularly as we have just passed a sign warning us that asbestos might be there.
We find some wooden steps leading down to the mudflats, and a trail leading south through the wetlands. Down the steps, banked with yellow soursobs. Today we shall call them oxalis. No we shan't, that's a bit too pretentious.
The mudflats are covered with the green, brown and red-tipped succulent you don't know the name of. Neither do I. It's repellant and beautiful at the same time. The estuaries glint like flat sardine tin lids. There are not many birds and two of them are seagulls. Do you agree that if you take off your sunglasses it looks more colourful here? A richness of orange, purple and black that you hadn't noticed when you had them on?
The trail we're following is narrow. Damp mud drying into curled up squares of clay. Grey, and sloppy in parts. Let's go off to the right a bit, to slightly higher ground, where the soursobs are.
What are these bushes? Don't you know, either? They're broken, tight and scratchy, half dead, or all dead. Angry-faced black gumnuts on a dead branch. Crispy curly brown seed pods under crispy curly leaves. Gum trees. Gum trees. And yet it doesn't look bad.
Where's the river? There. We're just coming up to it. Its wide here, and flowing backwards. On the other side are people fishing. Look at our little trail now. It's as wide as a human foot, with green and yellow oxalis knee high on both sides.
I'm going to leave you now. Just wait here, I'll be back in 24 hours. It won't seem like that to you though. And when I return, I'll know the names of some of those bushes and trees.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Mmmm.
Geophagy, Pliny, What's that?
You do not know? In the case of the Sulphur Crested Cockatoo it is the eating of clay, in order to detoxify their food.
Oh yuck! Eating dirt!
It is a practice more common than you might think. Other animals eat clay and chalk for the same reasons. But did you know that humans too have eaten dirt for thousands of years? Pregnant women often express a craving for dirt. It is believed to aid in the supression of nausea. It also aids in the treatment of diarrhoea. You have heard of Kaolin, I suppose?
Yes, I have! And now you mention it I remember one of the characters in One Hundred Years of Solitude began to eat dirt when she was pregnant. I thought it was just magical realism at the time.
Oh no. Even today, in very poor countries such as Haiti, it is not uncommon to find the people eating little pancakes made of dirt. They call them bon bons de terres. I believe they add a little shortening, salt and sometimes sugar to make them more palatable.
Do they? Mmmm.
You do not know? In the case of the Sulphur Crested Cockatoo it is the eating of clay, in order to detoxify their food.
Oh yuck! Eating dirt!
It is a practice more common than you might think. Other animals eat clay and chalk for the same reasons. But did you know that humans too have eaten dirt for thousands of years? Pregnant women often express a craving for dirt. It is believed to aid in the supression of nausea. It also aids in the treatment of diarrhoea. You have heard of Kaolin, I suppose?
Yes, I have! And now you mention it I remember one of the characters in One Hundred Years of Solitude began to eat dirt when she was pregnant. I thought it was just magical realism at the time.
Oh no. Even today, in very poor countries such as Haiti, it is not uncommon to find the people eating little pancakes made of dirt. They call them bon bons de terres. I believe they add a little shortening, salt and sometimes sugar to make them more palatable.
Do they? Mmmm.
Geophagy
What an intellect has Le Bon David! said Pliny admiringly.
You think so? I said. Don't you find him a little bit pompous?
Certainly not, replied Pliny, I find him a man after my own heart. In particular I am in complete accord with him on the matter of scepticism.
You, Pliny! Aren't your Natural Histories full of hearsay and unsubstantiated stories? Please don't take offence, I added.
The ability to read my Natural Histories in the spirit intended is not given to everyone, he said enigmatically.
Is it given to me? I asked.
No, he answered. You always seem to delight in taking me literally. But there is no point continuing with this. Did you know there was a fly on the window?
Yes, I can't seem to get it to go outside by natural means, I said. I'm quite disappointed, because I had hoped the glass Sulphur Crested Cockatoo would scare the flies away. He looks quite realistic don't you think?
No, said Pliny, he doesn't, being two-dimensional. And anyway, I do not think that Sulphur Crested Cockatoos eat flies.
What do they eat then, Pliny?
I believe, said Pliny sagely, that they are known to practice geophagy.
You think so? I said. Don't you find him a little bit pompous?
Certainly not, replied Pliny, I find him a man after my own heart. In particular I am in complete accord with him on the matter of scepticism.
You, Pliny! Aren't your Natural Histories full of hearsay and unsubstantiated stories? Please don't take offence, I added.
The ability to read my Natural Histories in the spirit intended is not given to everyone, he said enigmatically.
Is it given to me? I asked.
No, he answered. You always seem to delight in taking me literally. But there is no point continuing with this. Did you know there was a fly on the window?
Yes, I can't seem to get it to go outside by natural means, I said. I'm quite disappointed, because I had hoped the glass Sulphur Crested Cockatoo would scare the flies away. He looks quite realistic don't you think?
No, said Pliny, he doesn't, being two-dimensional. And anyway, I do not think that Sulphur Crested Cockatoos eat flies.
What do they eat then, Pliny?
I believe, said Pliny sagely, that they are known to practice geophagy.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Velosophy 3 : Freewheel v. Determinism
Greetings fellow velosophers! Thanks for your wonderful response to our first 2 issues. Le Bon David here, with more cycling conundrums and paradoxes for you. Today I am going to address the big question of freewill versus determinism as it pertains to bicycling.
First I am going to talk in general terms about riding and then I shall examine the implications of falling off.
What could be a more apt metaphor to illustrate free will than the riding of a bicycle? We are free to start and stop at will, change our direction at will, wear whatever apparel we like, ride in the rain, travel over thorns, tinkle our bells, and shout rudely at people who do not get out of our way in time. And free wheeling is the ultimate example of freedom, for most of us. The pure joy of whizzing along without effort is without parallel.
But wait! Is this truly free will? Is not every single example I have given causally determined by an unbroken chain of prior occurrences? Sadly I think most of you would have to say Yes.
However, I put it to you that since the necessary connection between cause and effect can never be rationally justified, our belief in them must rest entirely upon our acquired habits.
What good news for those of us who are prone to tumble off occasionally! No one likes to think they have tumbled off of their own free will. Even less do we like to think we have tumbled off in a manner predetermined by an outside force or series of events. But SCEPTICISM informs us we have merely fallen off our bicycles from habitude.
That is all for this week, cycling friends! Please feel free to write in with thoughts and opinions on this and any other topics that interest you. Next week my friend the VeloDrone will pondering the topic of Nihilism. Do join us!
First I am going to talk in general terms about riding and then I shall examine the implications of falling off.
What could be a more apt metaphor to illustrate free will than the riding of a bicycle? We are free to start and stop at will, change our direction at will, wear whatever apparel we like, ride in the rain, travel over thorns, tinkle our bells, and shout rudely at people who do not get out of our way in time. And free wheeling is the ultimate example of freedom, for most of us. The pure joy of whizzing along without effort is without parallel.
But wait! Is this truly free will? Is not every single example I have given causally determined by an unbroken chain of prior occurrences? Sadly I think most of you would have to say Yes.
However, I put it to you that since the necessary connection between cause and effect can never be rationally justified, our belief in them must rest entirely upon our acquired habits.
What good news for those of us who are prone to tumble off occasionally! No one likes to think they have tumbled off of their own free will. Even less do we like to think we have tumbled off in a manner predetermined by an outside force or series of events. But SCEPTICISM informs us we have merely fallen off our bicycles from habitude.
That is all for this week, cycling friends! Please feel free to write in with thoughts and opinions on this and any other topics that interest you. Next week my friend the VeloDrone will pondering the topic of Nihilism. Do join us!
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
A Fortunate Life
Have you finished reviewing your life yet ? enquired Pliny the Elder this morning.
Yes, thank you, I have, I replied.
And have you come to any useful conclusions? he asked.
Yes I have come to the useful conclusion that it wasn't very useful. That my life is just a series of events. If anything though, I concluded that I've been very lucky.
Except in the case where all your Christmas fish died, said Pliny.
No, even that was lucky. It meant I wouldn't kill them myself.
Let us hope you remain lucky, said Pliny.
I was lucky this morning, I said. You know that glass Sulphur Crested Cockatoo my sister gave me for my birthday? The one hanging near the back door?
Yes.
And remember what she said about those little copper hooks where the feet should be? That I should get two small branches of gum leaves and twine them together and poke them through the hooks?
Yes.
And remember I couldn't reach any of the branches of the gum tree in front of our house because the tree had grown too tall.
Yes, yes.
So I used a monkeytail that I found at the beach instead and it looked really bizarre and unrealistic?
Yes, yes, yes, I remember.
Well! This morning the rubbish collection truck accidentally knocked a huge branch off the tree when it lifted up the wheelie bin, and when I saw the branch lying in the road I thought, Hey, that's lucky!
Very lucky, said Pliny.
Yes, thank you, I have, I replied.
And have you come to any useful conclusions? he asked.
Yes I have come to the useful conclusion that it wasn't very useful. That my life is just a series of events. If anything though, I concluded that I've been very lucky.
Except in the case where all your Christmas fish died, said Pliny.
No, even that was lucky. It meant I wouldn't kill them myself.
Let us hope you remain lucky, said Pliny.
I was lucky this morning, I said. You know that glass Sulphur Crested Cockatoo my sister gave me for my birthday? The one hanging near the back door?
Yes.
And remember what she said about those little copper hooks where the feet should be? That I should get two small branches of gum leaves and twine them together and poke them through the hooks?
Yes.
And remember I couldn't reach any of the branches of the gum tree in front of our house because the tree had grown too tall.
Yes, yes.
So I used a monkeytail that I found at the beach instead and it looked really bizarre and unrealistic?
Yes, yes, yes, I remember.
Well! This morning the rubbish collection truck accidentally knocked a huge branch off the tree when it lifted up the wheelie bin, and when I saw the branch lying in the road I thought, Hey, that's lucky!
Very lucky, said Pliny.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Part 6 : My Life Without Me
What would my life have been like if my parents hadn't emigrated? Perhaps every child in similar circumstances wonders this.
The other me ( let me call her Heather, which was the name they didn't give me ), may well have died of whooping cough. I caught it every year which was why they decided to move to a warmer climate.
Assuming Heather hadn't died, what next? She wouldn't have had the pleasure of learning this poem, composed ex tempore by her dad:
This New Years Day of fifty five
We're certainly glad to be alive.
We'll pack our bags at the end of May
And go on board the Oronsay.
This biggest, newest, fastest ship
Will take us on a lovely trip
Across the ocean far and wide,
And deposit us in Adel-ide.
Yes, you must pronounce Adelaide wrongly for it to rhyme, and this is what makes it so delicious. To have learned this poetic lesson at the age of five is a privilege Heather will never know.
Heather grew up to be a studious girl and went to Oxford University. Later she became someone who was interested in art history. She worked at the British Museum painstakingly restoring various items, and sometimes at the National Portrait Gallery doing this and that. She was also very talented and produced many delicate and much admired etchings.
As to her personal life I've never thought about it. Thinking about it now I'm thinking : If she had three children they would be half like my three children. I don't like this thought. Nor do I like Heather, very much.
She has had one more summer in her life than me. This is because I left England at the end of May and arrived in Adel-ide in June. The more I think about this the crosser I get.
That's all.
The other me ( let me call her Heather, which was the name they didn't give me ), may well have died of whooping cough. I caught it every year which was why they decided to move to a warmer climate.
Assuming Heather hadn't died, what next? She wouldn't have had the pleasure of learning this poem, composed ex tempore by her dad:
This New Years Day of fifty five
We're certainly glad to be alive.
We'll pack our bags at the end of May
And go on board the Oronsay.
This biggest, newest, fastest ship
Will take us on a lovely trip
Across the ocean far and wide,
And deposit us in Adel-ide.
Yes, you must pronounce Adelaide wrongly for it to rhyme, and this is what makes it so delicious. To have learned this poetic lesson at the age of five is a privilege Heather will never know.
Heather grew up to be a studious girl and went to Oxford University. Later she became someone who was interested in art history. She worked at the British Museum painstakingly restoring various items, and sometimes at the National Portrait Gallery doing this and that. She was also very talented and produced many delicate and much admired etchings.
As to her personal life I've never thought about it. Thinking about it now I'm thinking : If she had three children they would be half like my three children. I don't like this thought. Nor do I like Heather, very much.
She has had one more summer in her life than me. This is because I left England at the end of May and arrived in Adel-ide in June. The more I think about this the crosser I get.
That's all.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Part 5 : My Life at Work
My life at work; this will be short.
My first job is teaching in a high school. I am 20. I do not wish to be a teacher, nor do I feel I have anything to teach. I have always detested having to speak in front of a group. I am only a few years older than my class. Worse, I am teaching geography to year 8s although I never studied geography beyond year 7. Nevertheless, I manage to do it for one whole year. I learn that you must be careful not to mix up Africa and South America.
My second job is looking after other people's children in my home, along with my own. This is easy but I only get $20 a week so it is not lucrative, but at least my children have someone to play with. This goes on for years and a succession of children without incident until little James gets a wellie full of boiling water by accident, and severely burns his little white foot. I vow never to look after anybody's children ever again.
Next I get a job working in the office of our family business, which is an investment company. I like this job because I can dress up in nice clothes. I learn how to run a share register and how to wait for things to turn up in the mail. Sometimes the things take months and months. I have to liaise with someone at Executor Trustee about tranferring a Trust Fund. Every week I go across town to his office and say, We haven't received anything yet. His wife is going to have a baby. One day she rings up while I'm in the office and he turns away from me to answer the phone. 'Hi hinny', he says, in a treacley voice. I wonder if this is because he is Dutch.
My last job is working in the canteen at Touch Footy on Thursday nights, a job my daughter does not want and my son needs someone to do. This is a very time consuming way of making a few dollars for the club by selling the odd pie, pasty, red frog, giant python, and Coke. Plus I have to keep the drink fridge stocked up. One day a young woman comes in and tells me she thinks I should do more in the interests of fellowship, organise a barbecue on the weekend for example.
Fellowship! Interfering Christian person! Does she think I like doing this? I am so outraged I can hardly speak.
My first job is teaching in a high school. I am 20. I do not wish to be a teacher, nor do I feel I have anything to teach. I have always detested having to speak in front of a group. I am only a few years older than my class. Worse, I am teaching geography to year 8s although I never studied geography beyond year 7. Nevertheless, I manage to do it for one whole year. I learn that you must be careful not to mix up Africa and South America.
My second job is looking after other people's children in my home, along with my own. This is easy but I only get $20 a week so it is not lucrative, but at least my children have someone to play with. This goes on for years and a succession of children without incident until little James gets a wellie full of boiling water by accident, and severely burns his little white foot. I vow never to look after anybody's children ever again.
Next I get a job working in the office of our family business, which is an investment company. I like this job because I can dress up in nice clothes. I learn how to run a share register and how to wait for things to turn up in the mail. Sometimes the things take months and months. I have to liaise with someone at Executor Trustee about tranferring a Trust Fund. Every week I go across town to his office and say, We haven't received anything yet. His wife is going to have a baby. One day she rings up while I'm in the office and he turns away from me to answer the phone. 'Hi hinny', he says, in a treacley voice. I wonder if this is because he is Dutch.
My last job is working in the canteen at Touch Footy on Thursday nights, a job my daughter does not want and my son needs someone to do. This is a very time consuming way of making a few dollars for the club by selling the odd pie, pasty, red frog, giant python, and Coke. Plus I have to keep the drink fridge stocked up. One day a young woman comes in and tells me she thinks I should do more in the interests of fellowship, organise a barbecue on the weekend for example.
Fellowship! Interfering Christian person! Does she think I like doing this? I am so outraged I can hardly speak.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Part 4 : My Life in Crime
FAILURE TO PAY.
I was six years old and in Grade 2 at Hectorville Primary. They had a system for raising money called Voluntary Contributions. Each month they sent home a little yellow card for your parents to fill in and send back with some money. You had to give it to the teacher the next morning. Something went wrong once, and I missed the moment for giving the money to the teacher. The yellow card and the ten shilling note stayed in my schoolbag. I spent the entire next month freaking out, not knowing what to do with the money. I lived in terror of discovery, unaware at six years old of the meaning of the word Voluntary. I don't remember what happened to the money. It's probably still in the bag. ( Moral: It pays to increase your vocabulary.)
INDECENT ACT.
I'm 8. I'm playing in the front garden. I want to pee. I squat down and pee in a drain next to the house. A neighbour sees me and tells my mum and dad. Dad gives me a smack on the leg. Before smacking me he says, "You're too old for smacks." ( Moral: Pee round the back.)
LYING UNDER OATH.
I was giving evidence at the Rent Tribunal in the case of my son versus his landlord who claimed my son had vacated the property without properly cleaning the bath. The landlord was claiming a ridiculous amount for having it professionally cleaned. I had cleaned the bath for my son but I hadn't had enough time to clean it properly. However I didn't think that it was all that bad. What did you use to clean the bath, Mrs Webber? asked the judge. I used Ajax and Chux Superwipes, I said brazenly, lying under oath. This was because I didn't want to admit that I had used Home Brand products. Even so, the landlord whistled through his teeth. Anyone would think his bath was made of gold. In the end the judge ruled my son and the landlord should pay half each, and congratulated all of us for being honest. ( Moral: A confident lie is advantageous in court.)
HIT AND RUN.
In the KMart carpark 10 years ago I reversed out into the path of an oncoming vehicle. I heard a metallic crunch. I thought I had reversed over the kerb or worse. I looked over my shoulder briefly, saw nothing and drove off, as I was late to pick up my daughter. There I got out of the car and looked at the back. I had obviously been in a collision. We drove back to the KMart and I presented myself at the police station on the shopping strip. Inside were 2 distaught non-English speaking ladies whose car I had dinged. I tried to explain the inexplicable to the police officer. You realise it is a crime to leave the scene of an accident? he said sternly. Oh yes I do, I said, I'm so sorry, I didn't know I'd had one and as soon as I found out I CAME BACK. I knew how lame this sounded. Nor was it exactly true. But he let me off, and filed a normal accident report.
( Moral: It is possible, but risky, to meet contradictory obligations.)
I was six years old and in Grade 2 at Hectorville Primary. They had a system for raising money called Voluntary Contributions. Each month they sent home a little yellow card for your parents to fill in and send back with some money. You had to give it to the teacher the next morning. Something went wrong once, and I missed the moment for giving the money to the teacher. The yellow card and the ten shilling note stayed in my schoolbag. I spent the entire next month freaking out, not knowing what to do with the money. I lived in terror of discovery, unaware at six years old of the meaning of the word Voluntary. I don't remember what happened to the money. It's probably still in the bag. ( Moral: It pays to increase your vocabulary.)
INDECENT ACT.
I'm 8. I'm playing in the front garden. I want to pee. I squat down and pee in a drain next to the house. A neighbour sees me and tells my mum and dad. Dad gives me a smack on the leg. Before smacking me he says, "You're too old for smacks." ( Moral: Pee round the back.)
LYING UNDER OATH.
I was giving evidence at the Rent Tribunal in the case of my son versus his landlord who claimed my son had vacated the property without properly cleaning the bath. The landlord was claiming a ridiculous amount for having it professionally cleaned. I had cleaned the bath for my son but I hadn't had enough time to clean it properly. However I didn't think that it was all that bad. What did you use to clean the bath, Mrs Webber? asked the judge. I used Ajax and Chux Superwipes, I said brazenly, lying under oath. This was because I didn't want to admit that I had used Home Brand products. Even so, the landlord whistled through his teeth. Anyone would think his bath was made of gold. In the end the judge ruled my son and the landlord should pay half each, and congratulated all of us for being honest. ( Moral: A confident lie is advantageous in court.)
HIT AND RUN.
In the KMart carpark 10 years ago I reversed out into the path of an oncoming vehicle. I heard a metallic crunch. I thought I had reversed over the kerb or worse. I looked over my shoulder briefly, saw nothing and drove off, as I was late to pick up my daughter. There I got out of the car and looked at the back. I had obviously been in a collision. We drove back to the KMart and I presented myself at the police station on the shopping strip. Inside were 2 distaught non-English speaking ladies whose car I had dinged. I tried to explain the inexplicable to the police officer. You realise it is a crime to leave the scene of an accident? he said sternly. Oh yes I do, I said, I'm so sorry, I didn't know I'd had one and as soon as I found out I CAME BACK. I knew how lame this sounded. Nor was it exactly true. But he let me off, and filed a normal accident report.
( Moral: It is possible, but risky, to meet contradictory obligations.)
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Part 3 : My Life In Bed
When I was a baby I slept upstairs. Every night before being put to bed I was carried around the room to say goodnight to all my toys and pictures. Goodnight Dinah Duck, Goodnight Freddy Frog, Goodnight Naughty Monkey Christopher. This was how I learned the art of procrastination.
At eleven I had for a short time a bedroom to myself with a double bed. On top of the bed was a rose pink feather quilt, embroidered in silk, which had belonged to my grandmother. Under this quilt I read the one and only Biggles book I was ever to read in my life. I did not like Biggles, nor understand him, but I read the book with a sense of discovering an alien world. This was how I learned the thrill of breaking intellectual boundaries.
As a teenager I had the middle bedroom in a row of three at the back of the house, opening onto a terrace. It was not as nice as it sounds. The lock on the door to the terrace was unreliable and sometimes I heard strange noises at night. One night I was alone in the house and I heard heavy breathing outside. I didn't do anything, but lay in a state of terror while the man breathed heavily for what seemed like hours out there on the terrace. Later I concluded that since I was still alive it had probably been a possum. This was how I learned that those films in which a defenceless young woman is drawn to discover the source of a mysterious sound are unrealistic.
When I was thirty I slept in a campervan for several months with my family. We were on holiday travelling through France, Italy and Greece, and the sleeping arrangements were necessarily precise. The 2 boys slept in tiny hammocks which could only be set up once the table had been folded away. Once they were asleep, we had to perform a series of manoeuvres to set up our double bed in the cabin. This included blowing up by mouth a double lilo. Sleeping on a double lilo taught me many practical lessons in physics.
In the nineties we lived in a large old house on Coolibah Avenue. The main bedroom had an off white shagpile carpet, a ceiling rose, and cracks in the walls which expanded and contracted with the seasons. In this bedroom I experienced the worst toothache I ever had in my entire life. I dealt with it by taking sips of cold water every 5 minutes for the duration of the night. I learned nothing from this, but was soon to learn that root canal work is expensive.
Now I have an elegant bedroom with a bay window that looks out on to the front garden and the road. There is an Animal Hospital on the corner and sometimes I hear the sorowful yelping of dogs. We are close enough to the main road to also hear the wailings of ambulances and fire engines and the rumbling of buses. On the other corner is a MacDonalds Restaurant. It stays open quite late and sometimes I hear at night the sounds of people squabbling over a hamburger. You might expect all these things to have taught me a greater sense of compassion.
They haven't.
At eleven I had for a short time a bedroom to myself with a double bed. On top of the bed was a rose pink feather quilt, embroidered in silk, which had belonged to my grandmother. Under this quilt I read the one and only Biggles book I was ever to read in my life. I did not like Biggles, nor understand him, but I read the book with a sense of discovering an alien world. This was how I learned the thrill of breaking intellectual boundaries.
As a teenager I had the middle bedroom in a row of three at the back of the house, opening onto a terrace. It was not as nice as it sounds. The lock on the door to the terrace was unreliable and sometimes I heard strange noises at night. One night I was alone in the house and I heard heavy breathing outside. I didn't do anything, but lay in a state of terror while the man breathed heavily for what seemed like hours out there on the terrace. Later I concluded that since I was still alive it had probably been a possum. This was how I learned that those films in which a defenceless young woman is drawn to discover the source of a mysterious sound are unrealistic.
When I was thirty I slept in a campervan for several months with my family. We were on holiday travelling through France, Italy and Greece, and the sleeping arrangements were necessarily precise. The 2 boys slept in tiny hammocks which could only be set up once the table had been folded away. Once they were asleep, we had to perform a series of manoeuvres to set up our double bed in the cabin. This included blowing up by mouth a double lilo. Sleeping on a double lilo taught me many practical lessons in physics.
In the nineties we lived in a large old house on Coolibah Avenue. The main bedroom had an off white shagpile carpet, a ceiling rose, and cracks in the walls which expanded and contracted with the seasons. In this bedroom I experienced the worst toothache I ever had in my entire life. I dealt with it by taking sips of cold water every 5 minutes for the duration of the night. I learned nothing from this, but was soon to learn that root canal work is expensive.
Now I have an elegant bedroom with a bay window that looks out on to the front garden and the road. There is an Animal Hospital on the corner and sometimes I hear the sorowful yelping of dogs. We are close enough to the main road to also hear the wailings of ambulances and fire engines and the rumbling of buses. On the other corner is a MacDonalds Restaurant. It stays open quite late and sometimes I hear at night the sounds of people squabbling over a hamburger. You might expect all these things to have taught me a greater sense of compassion.
They haven't.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Part 2 : My Life in Fish
This is a review of my life so far as it relates to fish.
Fish have been a part of my life since I was very small. My parents lived with my grandparents when I was a baby, and every day my grandmother went to the fishmongers to buy me a piece of fish for my lunch. It was usually plaice. This is how I learned complaicency.
At that time too I swallowed a teaspoon of codliver oil every day with my orange juice. This is how I learned to be a good girl.
The next fish I had were living in a bowl. There were nine of them and they were a Christmas present. I was nine years old. The weather was very hot and by Boxing Day morning they were all dead. Thus I learned that looking after pets is not always time consuming.
In the nineties I had a daughter who was not allowed to have a dog. What CAN I have? she asked. You can have fish in a bowl, I said. We buy an aquarium, and 9 tiny fish which she names Bob, plus a pouty goldfish called Gwendolyn. Now I am about to learn a big lesson. The lesson is, that I will be responsible for the feeding of the fish and the cleaning of the aquarium until the day the last one dies. As it turns out the last one is killed, and by me. This is when I learn I have inner steel.
Once a few years ago I went fishing on Loch Awe. I caught 2 brown trout that afternoon, to the astonishment of all. Loch Awe is now named Loch Awe after me.
Fish have been a part of my life since I was very small. My parents lived with my grandparents when I was a baby, and every day my grandmother went to the fishmongers to buy me a piece of fish for my lunch. It was usually plaice. This is how I learned complaicency.
At that time too I swallowed a teaspoon of codliver oil every day with my orange juice. This is how I learned to be a good girl.
The next fish I had were living in a bowl. There were nine of them and they were a Christmas present. I was nine years old. The weather was very hot and by Boxing Day morning they were all dead. Thus I learned that looking after pets is not always time consuming.
In the nineties I had a daughter who was not allowed to have a dog. What CAN I have? she asked. You can have fish in a bowl, I said. We buy an aquarium, and 9 tiny fish which she names Bob, plus a pouty goldfish called Gwendolyn. Now I am about to learn a big lesson. The lesson is, that I will be responsible for the feeding of the fish and the cleaning of the aquarium until the day the last one dies. As it turns out the last one is killed, and by me. This is when I learn I have inner steel.
Once a few years ago I went fishing on Loch Awe. I caught 2 brown trout that afternoon, to the astonishment of all. Loch Awe is now named Loch Awe after me.
Part 1 : The Pepys
Another year gone and my household consists of myself, Allan and my sister Susan who stayed the last 2 nights in our spare room. My sister Wendy is staying with my mother at Townsend Park in Hove. My son Sean and his wife Belinda are in Ferryden Park and my son Chris and his wife Claire and my granddaughter Lucy are in Kilmarnock. My daughter Fiona is in London.
All the riches I have currently in my purse are two twenty dollar notes, and $2.90 in coins, a far cry from yesterday when I had a great deal more but we went out to dinner last night and then went out to lunch today. There are also 2 old shopping lists and a receipt from West Lakes Fruit Corner from the 27th July for 820gm of Lemon Bergamot pears, which we must have eaten. There is a loyalty card from Sumo Salad, and 2 coffee vouchers from Billy Baxters which Sandy gave me and which I will not use.
This year I have learned to blog and Tweet. Also how to take out and replace a zipper neatly in a pair of men's trousers. In the process I learned that men's trouser zippers are sewn in as if they may one day have to withstand a tornado or a nuclear blast. I have learned, too, that coughing is useful. I used to think you coughed up mucus and then swallowed it down again into the same place, which seemed quite unproductive. But my sister, who is a nurse, informed me today that it coughs up from your lungs and swallows down into your stomach. This is obvious when you think about it but until today I swear I never had.
I now qualify for a seniors card and free travel on the bus. This is excellent except for one thing, which is that the driver of the bus will know that I am sixty. If the driver of the bus looks totally indifferent on learning this, I shall not be able to avoid feeling rather low. If on the other hand the driver of the bus should look a little suspicious, how embarrassing it would be.
All the riches I have currently in my purse are two twenty dollar notes, and $2.90 in coins, a far cry from yesterday when I had a great deal more but we went out to dinner last night and then went out to lunch today. There are also 2 old shopping lists and a receipt from West Lakes Fruit Corner from the 27th July for 820gm of Lemon Bergamot pears, which we must have eaten. There is a loyalty card from Sumo Salad, and 2 coffee vouchers from Billy Baxters which Sandy gave me and which I will not use.
This year I have learned to blog and Tweet. Also how to take out and replace a zipper neatly in a pair of men's trousers. In the process I learned that men's trouser zippers are sewn in as if they may one day have to withstand a tornado or a nuclear blast. I have learned, too, that coughing is useful. I used to think you coughed up mucus and then swallowed it down again into the same place, which seemed quite unproductive. But my sister, who is a nurse, informed me today that it coughs up from your lungs and swallows down into your stomach. This is obvious when you think about it but until today I swear I never had.
I now qualify for a seniors card and free travel on the bus. This is excellent except for one thing, which is that the driver of the bus will know that I am sixty. If the driver of the bus looks totally indifferent on learning this, I shall not be able to avoid feeling rather low. If on the other hand the driver of the bus should look a little suspicious, how embarrassing it would be.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Six Parts
I didn't find time to sit down and review my life yesterday, until bedtime, and by then I was of course lying.
In bed I realised how hard it was going to be.
I thought of many beginnings. Just before I went to sleep I came to a decision.
It was that I was a bit delirious and needed to go to sleep.
But I had at least come up with a plan. It was, to divide my review into six parts, the first of these to be named The Pepys, after the great diarist Samuel Pepys.
That will be an easy way into it, because I do a Pepysian every year. It largely consists of recording the members of my current household, the amount of money in my purse, and what new things I have learned to do during the past year.
It's good, it doesn't take long, and you can cheat about the money.
In bed I realised how hard it was going to be.
I thought of many beginnings. Just before I went to sleep I came to a decision.
It was that I was a bit delirious and needed to go to sleep.
But I had at least come up with a plan. It was, to divide my review into six parts, the first of these to be named The Pepys, after the great diarist Samuel Pepys.
That will be an easy way into it, because I do a Pepysian every year. It largely consists of recording the members of my current household, the amount of money in my purse, and what new things I have learned to do during the past year.
It's good, it doesn't take long, and you can cheat about the money.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Hot Laksa Soup
I liked The VeloDrone, said Pliny this morning. And now I know why we cohabit with a bicycle.
Oh, had you been wondering? I asked.
On and off, said Pliny. And how are you this morning? Last night you looked a little worse for wear.
I'm alright. We went to meet my sister at the airport, and then went to a noisy restaurant to eat. I was speaking more loudly than normal and eating a hot laksa soup. Whereas now I know I should have kept my mouth shut and had the non-spicy wok-tossed noodles.
How would you have eaten them with your mouth shut?
It's perfectly possible to eat noodles with your mouth shut. But you know what I mean. Anyway I was fine till I got home and then my flu caught up with me and I got the shakes. It was horrible. I thought I was getting pneumonia.
Oh dear. And your other sister is arriving today from Coffin Bay, isn't she?
Yes, but I'm okay again now. And she's promised to bring us some oysters.
Delightful! Are you eating at home tonight?
Yes. And tomorrow we're all going to the Greek on Halifax for my birthday dinner.
Yes, your famous birthday. How old are you going to be?
I don't know. First I need to sit down and review my life. But I don't know when I'll find the time to do it.
Oh, had you been wondering? I asked.
On and off, said Pliny. And how are you this morning? Last night you looked a little worse for wear.
I'm alright. We went to meet my sister at the airport, and then went to a noisy restaurant to eat. I was speaking more loudly than normal and eating a hot laksa soup. Whereas now I know I should have kept my mouth shut and had the non-spicy wok-tossed noodles.
How would you have eaten them with your mouth shut?
It's perfectly possible to eat noodles with your mouth shut. But you know what I mean. Anyway I was fine till I got home and then my flu caught up with me and I got the shakes. It was horrible. I thought I was getting pneumonia.
Oh dear. And your other sister is arriving today from Coffin Bay, isn't she?
Yes, but I'm okay again now. And she's promised to bring us some oysters.
Delightful! Are you eating at home tonight?
Yes. And tomorrow we're all going to the Greek on Halifax for my birthday dinner.
Yes, your famous birthday. How old are you going to be?
I don't know. First I need to sit down and review my life. But I don't know when I'll find the time to do it.
Monday, August 3, 2009
The Existential Bicycle
Bonjour cycling philos! Welcome to my new column, The VeloDrone, in which I hope to examine cycling from the bottom up, so to speak.
"If the bicycle did not exist, it would be necessary to invent it." Thus spoke yours truly, many years before the bicycle was in fact invented. In those days I used to go by the name Voltaire. Why don't you get on your bicycle, Voltaire? my jealous and ignorant enemies would jeer. Just you wait, I would reply.
Yes, today, my friends, the bicycle exists. And for what purpose? You may answer that the bicycle exists for getting from A to B. But I ask you then to consider the case of a woman who keeps a bicycle in her dining room.
I know such a woman. In her dining room she keeps a green bicycle leaning against the wall. She never rides the bicycle. Occasionally she moves it outside for the day ( in the summer) and props it against a wall. Or she wheels it into the living room ( in the winter) where it rests against a wooden cabinet topped with books, and prevents access to them. This is done when there are visitors expected and there will not be room for everyone at the table if the bicycle remains where it is. She hopes ( in the winter) that none of her guests will need to refer to a book.
The woman likes the bicycle, which belongs to her daughter who left it behind when she went to live in London. Sometimes when she moves it she notices the tyres have gone down. The first time she noticed that the tyres had gone down she asked her son to pump them up. The second time she decided to let them be until her daughter came home for a holiday.
Once, her daughter had fallen off the green bicycle, and injured her finger. Head down in a strong wind she had ridden into the back of a parked car. This was almost exactly the same thing that had happened to the woman once, when she was a schoolgirl, trying not to lose her hat. The woman likes to think about this coincidence.
And so, my friends, what if we should ask of this bicycle, Why do you exist? I suggest the answer would be forthcoming: I exist to be.
Perhaps you have enjoyed thinking about these simple things. If so please join me and my good friend Le Bon David for next week's edition of The Velosopher!
"If the bicycle did not exist, it would be necessary to invent it." Thus spoke yours truly, many years before the bicycle was in fact invented. In those days I used to go by the name Voltaire. Why don't you get on your bicycle, Voltaire? my jealous and ignorant enemies would jeer. Just you wait, I would reply.
Yes, today, my friends, the bicycle exists. And for what purpose? You may answer that the bicycle exists for getting from A to B. But I ask you then to consider the case of a woman who keeps a bicycle in her dining room.
I know such a woman. In her dining room she keeps a green bicycle leaning against the wall. She never rides the bicycle. Occasionally she moves it outside for the day ( in the summer) and props it against a wall. Or she wheels it into the living room ( in the winter) where it rests against a wooden cabinet topped with books, and prevents access to them. This is done when there are visitors expected and there will not be room for everyone at the table if the bicycle remains where it is. She hopes ( in the winter) that none of her guests will need to refer to a book.
The woman likes the bicycle, which belongs to her daughter who left it behind when she went to live in London. Sometimes when she moves it she notices the tyres have gone down. The first time she noticed that the tyres had gone down she asked her son to pump them up. The second time she decided to let them be until her daughter came home for a holiday.
Once, her daughter had fallen off the green bicycle, and injured her finger. Head down in a strong wind she had ridden into the back of a parked car. This was almost exactly the same thing that had happened to the woman once, when she was a schoolgirl, trying not to lose her hat. The woman likes to think about this coincidence.
And so, my friends, what if we should ask of this bicycle, Why do you exist? I suggest the answer would be forthcoming: I exist to be.
Perhaps you have enjoyed thinking about these simple things. If so please join me and my good friend Le Bon David for next week's edition of The Velosopher!
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Nine Tenths
Seven tenths of the surface of the earth is water. I read that in a book. Our bodies are seven tenths water, and that was in the same book. But the book was written several years ago. Now the icecaps are melting, so much for the earth, and I've been nine tenths water since last Saturday.
That is a conservative estimate, at two tenths extra, one for each nostril. although to be honest water ( let us call it water ) has not been emerging in equal proportions on either side.
First the right nostril had the heavy running, now it's the left.
Not like the water that was spewing out from under the Torrens Weir the other day, when we went for a walk and made that our turning point. We stopped in the middle of the weir bridge and looked down over the railing at the overflow. It spurted out in two identical plumes of white crosshatched toothpaste spit water, roaring and fuming, a mere columnella apart.
That is a conservative estimate, at two tenths extra, one for each nostril. although to be honest water ( let us call it water ) has not been emerging in equal proportions on either side.
First the right nostril had the heavy running, now it's the left.
Not like the water that was spewing out from under the Torrens Weir the other day, when we went for a walk and made that our turning point. We stopped in the middle of the weir bridge and looked down over the railing at the overflow. It spurted out in two identical plumes of white crosshatched toothpaste spit water, roaring and fuming, a mere columnella apart.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Stabat Mater
It was the first Lunch Hour Concert of the second semester, and Pliny was there with her mum to hear the Young Adelaide Voices sing Pergolesi's Stabat Mater.
Pliny's mum had a horrendous cough and cold, and feared lest she should suddenly erupt. Pliny too, had a younger version of the same thing and was also fearful. They sat on the end of a row near a door, just in case.
Stabat mater dolorosa, sang the young voices cheerfully. Pliny had thought this song was about Mary standing below the cross, but realised Pergolesi's version was about not letting anything get you down.
Eja mater fons amoris. The uplifting music must have worked its spell, for Pliny's mum sat through the whole performance without a peep, and Pliny herself had only one small hiccup.
This occurred during stanza 8, in which the two soloists, the delightful and talented Louisa Perfect and Greta Bradman, soprano and mezzo soprano, sang Fac ut ardeat in a repetitive sequence pronouncing Fac so that it sounded more like Fark. And Pliny could not help wondering how they could keep a straight face. But something retributive was occurring in Pliny's throat just then and it began to tickle.
Inflammatus and accensus! Pliny was about to embarrass herself with a coughing fit. She swallowed, swallowed, swallowed and swallowed again. Luckily the moment passed, leaving her with a watering eye.
Pliny was proud of her watering eye. She hoped somebody would notice it, and think that she had been emotionally moved, but no one did.
Pliny's mum had a horrendous cough and cold, and feared lest she should suddenly erupt. Pliny too, had a younger version of the same thing and was also fearful. They sat on the end of a row near a door, just in case.
Stabat mater dolorosa, sang the young voices cheerfully. Pliny had thought this song was about Mary standing below the cross, but realised Pergolesi's version was about not letting anything get you down.
Eja mater fons amoris. The uplifting music must have worked its spell, for Pliny's mum sat through the whole performance without a peep, and Pliny herself had only one small hiccup.
This occurred during stanza 8, in which the two soloists, the delightful and talented Louisa Perfect and Greta Bradman, soprano and mezzo soprano, sang Fac ut ardeat in a repetitive sequence pronouncing Fac so that it sounded more like Fark. And Pliny could not help wondering how they could keep a straight face. But something retributive was occurring in Pliny's throat just then and it began to tickle.
Inflammatus and accensus! Pliny was about to embarrass herself with a coughing fit. She swallowed, swallowed, swallowed and swallowed again. Luckily the moment passed, leaving her with a watering eye.
Pliny was proud of her watering eye. She hoped somebody would notice it, and think that she had been emotionally moved, but no one did.
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