Well, what does he say? Le Bon David asked impatiently. The VeloDrone cleared his throat.
The VeloDrone: ( reading in the tone of a voice-synthesizer ) Gentlemen. Perhaps you have heard of me. My name is Stephen Hawking....
Le Bon David: No need to do the voice, just read it.
The VeloDrone: Sorry, I can't help it. Gentlemen, de da de da.....I read with interest the recent article by your esteemed contributor Mr Salvador Dali, in which he describes a certain Nano String bicycle.
Le Bon David: Oh here we go. He's going to pull it to pieces.
The VeloDrone: No no, it doesn't look like it. Let me read on...... I feel I should point out that I too have been working on a Theory of NanoString Bicycles with particular reference to their usefulness in researching the Theory of Everything, as it relates to the Black Hole Information Paradox, the No Hair Theorem, and the No Boundary Universe, with which you gentlemen are no doubt familiar.
Le Bon David: Humpphh. I'm certainly not. Are you?
The VeloDrone: No, I'm not either.....But listen to this....... I am writing to let you know that I am willing , indeed more than willing, to contribute an article to your magazine Velosophy, upon these subjects. Gentlemen, I await your response. Yours faithfully, Stephen Hawking.
Le Bon David: Well! I suppose we should be grateful he isn't trying to blackmail us.
The VeloDrone: Isn't he? What does he mean by 'more than willing'? What choice do we really have? Reject the famous Stephen Hawking? I don't think so.
Le Bon David: I don't like it at all. How have we managed to lose control of our own magazine?
What's he going to write for goodness sake? What the devil is this No Hair Theory?
The VeloDrone: Theorem, David. No Hair Theorem. I don't know, but I suppose we are shortly to find out.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Feedback
Le Bon David and the VeloDrone are sharing a stiff drink at the end of the day.
Le Bon David: Well, we published it. Now to be damned.
The VeloDrone: Maybe, maybe not. I wonder what the readers will make of it.
Le Bon David: Pseudo-scientific arty-farty claptrap I suppose. Typical Dali. Still, we hadn't any choice.
The VeloDrone: True. But I quite liked his nanostring bicycle idea, even though it wasn't scientific or reasonable or philosophical. Could it be we've had too strict a view of what Velosophy is all about?
Le Bon David: Perhaps. Maybe Dali is right. People love the new. Therefore they will love a pseudo-scientific arty-farty concept for a new and incredibly weird bicycle. Anyway, we'll soon find out.
The VeloDrone: Look. We've just got an email.
Le Bon David: Good! Feedback. Who's it from?
The VeloDrone: Ooh dear! You won't like this!
Le Bon David: Who? Who?
The VeloDrone: It's from Stephen Hawking!
Le Bon David: Crumbs! Surely he doesn't own a bicycle!
Le Bon David: Well, we published it. Now to be damned.
The VeloDrone: Maybe, maybe not. I wonder what the readers will make of it.
Le Bon David: Pseudo-scientific arty-farty claptrap I suppose. Typical Dali. Still, we hadn't any choice.
The VeloDrone: True. But I quite liked his nanostring bicycle idea, even though it wasn't scientific or reasonable or philosophical. Could it be we've had too strict a view of what Velosophy is all about?
Le Bon David: Perhaps. Maybe Dali is right. People love the new. Therefore they will love a pseudo-scientific arty-farty concept for a new and incredibly weird bicycle. Anyway, we'll soon find out.
The VeloDrone: Look. We've just got an email.
Le Bon David: Good! Feedback. Who's it from?
The VeloDrone: Ooh dear! You won't like this!
Le Bon David: Who? Who?
The VeloDrone: It's from Stephen Hawking!
Le Bon David: Crumbs! Surely he doesn't own a bicycle!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
NanoString Bicycle
People! Remember me? It is I, Salvador Dali. The only difference between myself and a madman is: I am not mad. Ah yes, you remember me now!
It was I who painted the fourth dimension, in the shape of eight cubes. It was I who depicted the bending of light in the form of a spoon. Science, my friends, follows Dali, and Dali follows no one at all.
Surrealism may be dead. But Dali is not dead. Dali moves with the times. Dali moves before the times. The times follow Dali.
Enter my space. It is dark. What have we here? In a dark interactive tunnel you find a brilliant piece of work, by Dali. It is his new NanoString bicycle. The bicycle is blue and green and violet. These colours symbolise.....NOTHING!!! they are merely the colours Dali has chosen today. Symbolism is dead, but things must have a colour.
The NanoString bicycle is made of nano particles. They are miniscule. They are absorbed immediately into your skin. The bicycle becomes a part of you and you become the bicycle. You pedal down the dark tunnel, towards a screen at the end. You see your self riding towards you, and you are ALARMED! Momentarily. But you have forgotten your new nano qualities. You ride straight through the screen.
Crash! A million stars! Receding, receding....... You ride through dark matter, and dark energy sucks hungrily at your pedals....... you are going to vanish inside a BLACK HOLE. PANIC!!! But no. Here is the beauty and inventiveness of Dali's bicycle. The bicycle has remained attached to the tunnel by a series of nano strings, blue and green and violet. Yes! They did symbolise something afer all. They draw you back from certain extinction.The beautiful strings.
I, Dali, invented this.
It was I who painted the fourth dimension, in the shape of eight cubes. It was I who depicted the bending of light in the form of a spoon. Science, my friends, follows Dali, and Dali follows no one at all.
Surrealism may be dead. But Dali is not dead. Dali moves with the times. Dali moves before the times. The times follow Dali.
Enter my space. It is dark. What have we here? In a dark interactive tunnel you find a brilliant piece of work, by Dali. It is his new NanoString bicycle. The bicycle is blue and green and violet. These colours symbolise.....NOTHING!!! they are merely the colours Dali has chosen today. Symbolism is dead, but things must have a colour.
The NanoString bicycle is made of nano particles. They are miniscule. They are absorbed immediately into your skin. The bicycle becomes a part of you and you become the bicycle. You pedal down the dark tunnel, towards a screen at the end. You see your self riding towards you, and you are ALARMED! Momentarily. But you have forgotten your new nano qualities. You ride straight through the screen.
Crash! A million stars! Receding, receding....... You ride through dark matter, and dark energy sucks hungrily at your pedals....... you are going to vanish inside a BLACK HOLE. PANIC!!! But no. Here is the beauty and inventiveness of Dali's bicycle. The bicycle has remained attached to the tunnel by a series of nano strings, blue and green and violet. Yes! They did symbolise something afer all. They draw you back from certain extinction.The beautiful strings.
I, Dali, invented this.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Self-organising Molecules
A DNA sequence? said Pliny the Elder. What would have been so bad about that?
It would have been scary, a DNA sequence floating on top of green tea. It might have been the beginning of a new super organism. CTRAT has an R in it though, so that's alright. DNA sequences are made up of C T A and G.
You are not thinking clearly, said Pliny. A DNA sequence that was, for arguments sake, floating on top of green tea would not necessarily be made up of letters. In fact we can be pretty certain it wouldn't. It would just look like a piece of one of those double helixes. The letters are a human construct.
I hadn't thought of that. Anyway, what do you think CTRAT means? Are you sure it was CTRAT?
No, it could have been CAROT or CRIST.
Why didn't you say so before?
I knew you wouldn't like either of those.
You're right. They sound too much like real words. I quite like self-organising molecules but there have to be limits.
It would have been scary, a DNA sequence floating on top of green tea. It might have been the beginning of a new super organism. CTRAT has an R in it though, so that's alright. DNA sequences are made up of C T A and G.
You are not thinking clearly, said Pliny. A DNA sequence that was, for arguments sake, floating on top of green tea would not necessarily be made up of letters. In fact we can be pretty certain it wouldn't. It would just look like a piece of one of those double helixes. The letters are a human construct.
I hadn't thought of that. Anyway, what do you think CTRAT means? Are you sure it was CTRAT?
No, it could have been CAROT or CRIST.
Why didn't you say so before?
I knew you wouldn't like either of those.
You're right. They sound too much like real words. I quite like self-organising molecules but there have to be limits.
Monday, October 26, 2009
CTRAT
What are these doubts and suspicions you have about the Navy? asked Pliny the Elder. These dark hints require an explanation.
They were trying to promote the Navy, I replied. I didn't think that their carefree musical presentation was an accurate representation of what the Navy is about. I couldn't quite rid my mind of newspaper and television reports of sexual harassment.
Good gracious, said Pliny. I was an Admiral in the Roman Navy, you know. We certainly didn't have any sexual harassment issues in my day. No women, that's why. Nor did we need to go out and play music to the general public in order to make them like us. They liked us when we won naval battles, and they didn't like us when we lost, it was as simple as that.
Oh yes, I'd forgotten you were in the navy, I said. That must have been very exciting.
Mmm, said Pliny, dreamily looking into his teacup. Then he looked a bit harder. My goodness, he said. Take a look at this!
I looked, but couldn't see anything apart from the transparent yellow green tea.
Look at the surface of the tea, he said. What's that floating on the top?
I looked again, and it was true that in the right light you could see flat patches of something floating on the surface of the tea. They looked like maps of islands, with rivers, deltas, archipelagoes and fiords, reflecting the light somewhat differently from the tea.
Is it grease? I asked?
No, he answered it doesn't look like any island that I know of.
Oh very funny I said, except that Greece isn't an island.
Yes, he said absently. I'm just trying to see what this tiny floating speck here is. It looks like squiggly writing. I'm sure if I can just get a bit nearer I'll be able to read what it says. It starts with C. And it seems to end in T.
How many letters does it have? I asked.
Five, he said. I think...........I think it might be........... CTRAT !
Thank goodness for that, I said. For a moment I thought it might be a DNA sequence.
They were trying to promote the Navy, I replied. I didn't think that their carefree musical presentation was an accurate representation of what the Navy is about. I couldn't quite rid my mind of newspaper and television reports of sexual harassment.
Good gracious, said Pliny. I was an Admiral in the Roman Navy, you know. We certainly didn't have any sexual harassment issues in my day. No women, that's why. Nor did we need to go out and play music to the general public in order to make them like us. They liked us when we won naval battles, and they didn't like us when we lost, it was as simple as that.
Oh yes, I'd forgotten you were in the navy, I said. That must have been very exciting.
Mmm, said Pliny, dreamily looking into his teacup. Then he looked a bit harder. My goodness, he said. Take a look at this!
I looked, but couldn't see anything apart from the transparent yellow green tea.
Look at the surface of the tea, he said. What's that floating on the top?
I looked again, and it was true that in the right light you could see flat patches of something floating on the surface of the tea. They looked like maps of islands, with rivers, deltas, archipelagoes and fiords, reflecting the light somewhat differently from the tea.
Is it grease? I asked?
No, he answered it doesn't look like any island that I know of.
Oh very funny I said, except that Greece isn't an island.
Yes, he said absently. I'm just trying to see what this tiny floating speck here is. It looks like squiggly writing. I'm sure if I can just get a bit nearer I'll be able to read what it says. It starts with C. And it seems to end in T.
How many letters does it have? I asked.
Five, he said. I think...........I think it might be........... CTRAT !
Thank goodness for that, I said. For a moment I thought it might be a DNA sequence.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
In the Navy
Let us return to last Friday, before I got my sore toe. To the Blue Lemon Baguette Bar on North Terrace, where I am sitting at a metal table on a metal chair eating a number 16 baguette, with my mother, who is eating a different number, which I have forgotten.
A band strikes up across the road in front of the Museum. It is a brass band. It is a mixed gender white-uniformed Navy Band. It is Navy Week. A small crowd gathers to listen. They should do this every Friday, says my mum.
After we've eaten we cross the road. We have ten minutes before we have to be at the Elder Hall. Shall we sit down in the sun and listen for a bit? I ask. Yes let's, says my mum. The band is playing I Love Rock 'n' Roll. They are trying very hard to get the audience to clap their hands in the air but nobody will. I feel like clapping my hands in the air, but I, too, won't.
Does anybody like Tina Turner? asks the burly trumpet player. No one admits to it. Well, he says, our singer does and now she's going to sing you a medley of Tina Turner hits.
The singer, small dark-haired and pretty, sings You're Simply the Best. The sun and the music and the little three year old boy dancing in front of his mother make me feel that I am in fact enjoying the ambience. Maybe I really am. Yes, I am. But I'm also deeply suspicious of the men and women of this band. Especially the MEN. As we walk off in the direction of the Elder Hall, I fix them with a baleful stare.
A band strikes up across the road in front of the Museum. It is a brass band. It is a mixed gender white-uniformed Navy Band. It is Navy Week. A small crowd gathers to listen. They should do this every Friday, says my mum.
After we've eaten we cross the road. We have ten minutes before we have to be at the Elder Hall. Shall we sit down in the sun and listen for a bit? I ask. Yes let's, says my mum. The band is playing I Love Rock 'n' Roll. They are trying very hard to get the audience to clap their hands in the air but nobody will. I feel like clapping my hands in the air, but I, too, won't.
Does anybody like Tina Turner? asks the burly trumpet player. No one admits to it. Well, he says, our singer does and now she's going to sing you a medley of Tina Turner hits.
The singer, small dark-haired and pretty, sings You're Simply the Best. The sun and the music and the little three year old boy dancing in front of his mother make me feel that I am in fact enjoying the ambience. Maybe I really am. Yes, I am. But I'm also deeply suspicious of the men and women of this band. Especially the MEN. As we walk off in the direction of the Elder Hall, I fix them with a baleful stare.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Free Will and Toe
This is a tale of free will, and not having it. And because it is a short tale, a digression by way of the toe.
Alternatively, I could begin with the toe. And then digress to free will.
After all, it's up to me.
I have a sore toe. It's my right middle toe, which I injured walking home from the city on Friday in unsuitable shoes. On Saturday, I protected it with a Bandaid.
My tale begins at bedtime. No, just after. I am in bed and ready to fall asleep. Then I remember that I still have the Bandaid on my toe.
I am a person who believes, probably wrongly, that it is better to take a Bandaid off at night to allow the air to perform its healing work. My theory is that no harm will come to the injury in bed.
So, I'm lying in bed, picking at the edges of the Bandaid on my toe. Of course, I don't get anywhere. I can't even find the edge of the Bandaid. After a few more fruitless pickings, I'm
thinking about getting up, finding the nail scissors and snipping the Bandaid off. Then I'm thinking that it doesn't really matter if I don't. Because I don't want to get up out of bed.
Next thing I know, I've turned on the bedside light and I'm standing up looking for my nail scissors. Blow me, I think. Where was my free will in this?
Alternatively, I could begin with the toe. And then digress to free will.
After all, it's up to me.
I have a sore toe. It's my right middle toe, which I injured walking home from the city on Friday in unsuitable shoes. On Saturday, I protected it with a Bandaid.
My tale begins at bedtime. No, just after. I am in bed and ready to fall asleep. Then I remember that I still have the Bandaid on my toe.
I am a person who believes, probably wrongly, that it is better to take a Bandaid off at night to allow the air to perform its healing work. My theory is that no harm will come to the injury in bed.
So, I'm lying in bed, picking at the edges of the Bandaid on my toe. Of course, I don't get anywhere. I can't even find the edge of the Bandaid. After a few more fruitless pickings, I'm
thinking about getting up, finding the nail scissors and snipping the Bandaid off. Then I'm thinking that it doesn't really matter if I don't. Because I don't want to get up out of bed.
Next thing I know, I've turned on the bedside light and I'm standing up looking for my nail scissors. Blow me, I think. Where was my free will in this?
Friday, October 23, 2009
Moth Music
It's the 2009 ABC Young Performers Award Grand Final. The stage is brilliant with a crimson and bone backdrop and crimson and brain cell wings. The audience is sitting on cerise seats, with their feet resting on polished wooden boards.
The first young performer Bo An Lu begins his piece, Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto Number One. Two white moths fly into the stage space, and hover above the Adelaide Symphony Orchestra.
Beethoven!! whispers Moth One. No silly, Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto. Weeee! isn't it lovely! cries Moth Two, sailing up into a square of concentrated light. Oowaah! It's HOT! And he sails down again twisting and fluttering his wings on a draft of dazzling notes. Moth One floats gently upwards and swings on an invisible rope, then drops in a breathtaking dive to somewhere behind the first cello.
Now here comes performer number two, David Papp, to play the Oboe Concerto by Martinu. Oooh! Exhilarating! shouts Moth One, dancing madly back and forth before rising with polka-like movements over the heads of the winds. Don't get too excited, the lights are really hot now, warns Moth Two, before being carried away himself in an ecstasy of soulful bucolic bliss. Watch out!!! Too late! Moth One disappears inside the bright square of light and immediately divebombs to the floor landing ignominiously at the feet of the conductor. Followed, moments later, by Moth Two. Sadly there are no moths dancing to the glittering second movement of Martinu's Oboe Concerto.
Finally Ji Won Kim takes the stage. She begins to play the Sibelius Violin Concerto. The two moths ressurrect themselves, and rise sinuously towards the lights but stop short of being sizzled. They dance to the beautiful and heartbreaking notes. They do not hear the deeper oceanic notes played by the ASO. They do not listen to the sounds of polar bears thumping and lumbering from side to side in their own clumsy dance. No, they are in love with the wild heavenly notes emanating from the violin of Ji Won Kim. They think that she will win.
Now it is judging time. The ASO play Mendelssohn's Overture to A Midsummer Nights Dream. The moths are nowhere to be seen. They are somewhere behind the curtain, listening to the conference of the adjudicators.
This is a very difficult decision, says one of the adjudicators. It is, says another. But I am going for Ji Won Kim. I find moths to be an invaluable guide.
The first young performer Bo An Lu begins his piece, Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto Number One. Two white moths fly into the stage space, and hover above the Adelaide Symphony Orchestra.
Beethoven!! whispers Moth One. No silly, Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto. Weeee! isn't it lovely! cries Moth Two, sailing up into a square of concentrated light. Oowaah! It's HOT! And he sails down again twisting and fluttering his wings on a draft of dazzling notes. Moth One floats gently upwards and swings on an invisible rope, then drops in a breathtaking dive to somewhere behind the first cello.
Now here comes performer number two, David Papp, to play the Oboe Concerto by Martinu. Oooh! Exhilarating! shouts Moth One, dancing madly back and forth before rising with polka-like movements over the heads of the winds. Don't get too excited, the lights are really hot now, warns Moth Two, before being carried away himself in an ecstasy of soulful bucolic bliss. Watch out!!! Too late! Moth One disappears inside the bright square of light and immediately divebombs to the floor landing ignominiously at the feet of the conductor. Followed, moments later, by Moth Two. Sadly there are no moths dancing to the glittering second movement of Martinu's Oboe Concerto.
Finally Ji Won Kim takes the stage. She begins to play the Sibelius Violin Concerto. The two moths ressurrect themselves, and rise sinuously towards the lights but stop short of being sizzled. They dance to the beautiful and heartbreaking notes. They do not hear the deeper oceanic notes played by the ASO. They do not listen to the sounds of polar bears thumping and lumbering from side to side in their own clumsy dance. No, they are in love with the wild heavenly notes emanating from the violin of Ji Won Kim. They think that she will win.
Now it is judging time. The ASO play Mendelssohn's Overture to A Midsummer Nights Dream. The moths are nowhere to be seen. They are somewhere behind the curtain, listening to the conference of the adjudicators.
This is a very difficult decision, says one of the adjudicators. It is, says another. But I am going for Ji Won Kim. I find moths to be an invaluable guide.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Taser!!
Pliny, may I ask a favour?
Certainly.
Will you write my blog today? I feel a little tired.
Tired! That is no......why yes, I will, with the greatest of pleasure.
O thanks, Pliny. What will you blog on?
Let me think... ah yes. I shall blog on the topic of laziness.
No that isn't fair. Think of something else.
Well then, I shall have a look in the newspaper. Here is a story of a most excellent woman. I shall blog about her.
Who is it?
She is Isobel Redmond, the Leader of the State Opposition. This woman has volunteered to have a Taser gun fired at her person, in order to demonstrate that the effects are not harmful. A brave woman indeed. Worthy to be counted as a Roman. Most admirable. Most admirable.
Oh Isobel Redmond. I like her too. But I think that sounds a bit nutty. What do the police think?
They have declined her offer, for some unfathomable reason.
Well, what if she died?
Then she would have still have proved something useful.
Certainly.
Will you write my blog today? I feel a little tired.
Tired! That is no......why yes, I will, with the greatest of pleasure.
O thanks, Pliny. What will you blog on?
Let me think... ah yes. I shall blog on the topic of laziness.
No that isn't fair. Think of something else.
Well then, I shall have a look in the newspaper. Here is a story of a most excellent woman. I shall blog about her.
Who is it?
She is Isobel Redmond, the Leader of the State Opposition. This woman has volunteered to have a Taser gun fired at her person, in order to demonstrate that the effects are not harmful. A brave woman indeed. Worthy to be counted as a Roman. Most admirable. Most admirable.
Oh Isobel Redmond. I like her too. But I think that sounds a bit nutty. What do the police think?
They have declined her offer, for some unfathomable reason.
Well, what if she died?
Then she would have still have proved something useful.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Posse of Ants
When they had finally squashed all the ants the two editors sat back and looked at one another in dismay. Le Bon David picked up the envelope gingerly and peered inside.
Oh look, he said, here's a letter. Let's see what the old genius has to say for himself.
He pulled it out, unfolded it and began to read:
GENTLEMEN! Are you sweating? Are you alarmed? Surprised? Yes, the Divine Dali has more to say than can be conveyed by a posse of ANTS!
So! You let that old reprobate Freud loose on me in your magazine! Do you think I care? No! A Genius does not care what a spiteful old ex-dream interpreter has to say of him. I lie ? Dali does not lie! Dali is ABOVE LYING! And below-lying.
However, a SLUR has been cast upon me, and I shall use it.
I have a passion for bicycles. That much of what the old bumbler said is true. Therefore I demand that you give me equal space in your magazine to write my own column. It will illuminate the BICYCLE, the sweaty drippings, the impotent strivings and the flowing salivations that result when an ARTIST EXTRAORDINAIRE contemplates the bicycle.
If you will not, you may look forward to more Surrealistic outpourings from Daliesque envelopes containing less interpretable and squashable organisms than ANTS!
Now Gentlemen, I know you are going to LOVE,
the scribblings of
The Divine Dali xxx
Le Bon David looked up. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? he said to the VeloDrone.
We have opened up a can of worms, said the VeloDrone, nodding gravely. Goodbye order, goodbye reason, goodbye philosophy, unless we can come up with a plan.
Oh look, he said, here's a letter. Let's see what the old genius has to say for himself.
He pulled it out, unfolded it and began to read:
GENTLEMEN! Are you sweating? Are you alarmed? Surprised? Yes, the Divine Dali has more to say than can be conveyed by a posse of ANTS!
So! You let that old reprobate Freud loose on me in your magazine! Do you think I care? No! A Genius does not care what a spiteful old ex-dream interpreter has to say of him. I lie ? Dali does not lie! Dali is ABOVE LYING! And below-lying.
However, a SLUR has been cast upon me, and I shall use it.
I have a passion for bicycles. That much of what the old bumbler said is true. Therefore I demand that you give me equal space in your magazine to write my own column. It will illuminate the BICYCLE, the sweaty drippings, the impotent strivings and the flowing salivations that result when an ARTIST EXTRAORDINAIRE contemplates the bicycle.
If you will not, you may look forward to more Surrealistic outpourings from Daliesque envelopes containing less interpretable and squashable organisms than ANTS!
Now Gentlemen, I know you are going to LOVE,
the scribblings of
The Divine Dali xxx
Le Bon David looked up. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? he said to the VeloDrone.
We have opened up a can of worms, said the VeloDrone, nodding gravely. Goodbye order, goodbye reason, goodbye philosophy, unless we can come up with a plan.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Feedback
The VeloDrone: What's the feedback from the Freud story ? Did they like it?
Le Bon David: They loved it! We've got dozens of requests for Freud to analyse their dreams. I can't understand it. All that ridiculous symbolism. All those obvious interpretations.
The VeloDrone: I know! I laughed fit to pee myself when I read what he said to Dali. You are going on a journey indeed. No wonder Dali stormed out.
Le Bon David: Yes, very funny, but look at this.
The VeloDrone: What is it?
Le Bon David: It's an envelope, and it's addressed to us, see: To the Decomposing Editors of Velosophy. I suppose that means us.
The VeloDrone: Decomposing? What can it mean? Who is it from? Open it!
Le Bon David: Wait! Look at the back. It must be from Dali. See, he's drawn a little caricature of his face, the crazy moustache, the goggling eyes.
The VeloDrone: And he's written his name there as well. Dali, eh? I thought he'd gone on a journey.
Le Bon David: Well, he must have returned.
The VeloDrone: Open it.
Le Bon David: (opening it) Arghh! Eeeuw! Ants! Millions of ants coming out. Quick. Squash 'em!
The VeloDrone: Whack!Whack! Take that, you ants! Whack! Whack! Take that, and that! Whack! Whack!
Le Bon David: Do you get the feeling that the divine Dali is angry?
The VeloDrone: Yes. Oh cripes.
Le Bon David: They loved it! We've got dozens of requests for Freud to analyse their dreams. I can't understand it. All that ridiculous symbolism. All those obvious interpretations.
The VeloDrone: I know! I laughed fit to pee myself when I read what he said to Dali. You are going on a journey indeed. No wonder Dali stormed out.
Le Bon David: Yes, very funny, but look at this.
The VeloDrone: What is it?
Le Bon David: It's an envelope, and it's addressed to us, see: To the Decomposing Editors of Velosophy. I suppose that means us.
The VeloDrone: Decomposing? What can it mean? Who is it from? Open it!
Le Bon David: Wait! Look at the back. It must be from Dali. See, he's drawn a little caricature of his face, the crazy moustache, the goggling eyes.
The VeloDrone: And he's written his name there as well. Dali, eh? I thought he'd gone on a journey.
Le Bon David: Well, he must have returned.
The VeloDrone: Open it.
Le Bon David: (opening it) Arghh! Eeeuw! Ants! Millions of ants coming out. Quick. Squash 'em!
The VeloDrone: Whack!Whack! Take that, you ants! Whack! Whack! Take that, and that! Whack! Whack!
Le Bon David: Do you get the feeling that the divine Dali is angry?
The VeloDrone: Yes. Oh cripes.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
joes kiosk
i'm sitting outside joes kiosk at henley sheltered from the wind and sun
eating a banana icecream in a cone because pat's just bought me one
it's a double-decker and i think about the ethics of throwing half of it away
because i really only want a little one today
the ferry doesn't go from lucky bay now did you know
says pat licking her unintentionally smaller boysenberry cone
that means when sue drives over she will have a lot further to go
but she's like you it doesnt bother her she just goes with the flow
i am going with the flow i'm looking out to the horizon at the light
shining glinting thickly teeming silver fishes all moving to the right
they're undulating on the surface of the water and they're bright
and silvergold and squirming and their sides are nearly touching and they might
eating a banana icecream in a cone because pat's just bought me one
it's a double-decker and i think about the ethics of throwing half of it away
because i really only want a little one today
the ferry doesn't go from lucky bay now did you know
says pat licking her unintentionally smaller boysenberry cone
that means when sue drives over she will have a lot further to go
but she's like you it doesnt bother her she just goes with the flow
i am going with the flow i'm looking out to the horizon at the light
shining glinting thickly teeming silver fishes all moving to the right
they're undulating on the surface of the water and they're bright
and silvergold and squirming and their sides are nearly touching and they might
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Carrots
May I ask, enquired Pliny the Elder, how one hears, or imagines one hears, carrots in a piece of music?
You mean in the Walton at the Lunch Hour Concert? I asked.
Yes. I can understand that you may have heard traffic, chipmunks, bees, and even the motion of curtains, but I fail to understand how one imagines one is hearing something that neither moves nor makes a recognisable sound.
In other words you're asking me what I think carrots sound like?
I am.
Well, you have to understand the process. Do you remember how I became confused because they changed the order of the program?
Yes.
This meant that I never really got into the second, genuine Walton. I was full of chagrin, and self-reproach. The repetition of the chipmunk and bee sounds held an interest for me only insofar as they proved that in music you can hear almost anything you want.
And so you thought of carrots?
No, no, not like that. My mind drifted off. And since I was planning to go to the Central Market at half past three, it drifted towards a shopping list of the things that I might buy there. Not oranges, I thought. Perhaps a pineapple. Not bok choy. Maybe some carrots.
Aha! Carrots at last!
Yes, and I was thinking of the two limp carrots in the fridge at home, and that I might not need a whole bag of carrots but could probably do with about four large ones which I could buy from the Seven Sisters. Four carrots. Then my attention returned to the music. Don't ask me why.
I expect it was guilt.
Maybe it was. And I thought, is it possible that as I'm thinking of carrots I might hear carrots in the music? It had certainly been possible for me to hear other things which hadn't been there.
The reverse process, said Pliny sagely. This time you are thinking of something beforehand and then searching for it within the music.
That's right.
And did you find it?
Yes.
So, the question is, what did it sound like?
It sounded like four orange notes, rounded, but pointy at the end.
Remarkable, said Pliny.
You mean in the Walton at the Lunch Hour Concert? I asked.
Yes. I can understand that you may have heard traffic, chipmunks, bees, and even the motion of curtains, but I fail to understand how one imagines one is hearing something that neither moves nor makes a recognisable sound.
In other words you're asking me what I think carrots sound like?
I am.
Well, you have to understand the process. Do you remember how I became confused because they changed the order of the program?
Yes.
This meant that I never really got into the second, genuine Walton. I was full of chagrin, and self-reproach. The repetition of the chipmunk and bee sounds held an interest for me only insofar as they proved that in music you can hear almost anything you want.
And so you thought of carrots?
No, no, not like that. My mind drifted off. And since I was planning to go to the Central Market at half past three, it drifted towards a shopping list of the things that I might buy there. Not oranges, I thought. Perhaps a pineapple. Not bok choy. Maybe some carrots.
Aha! Carrots at last!
Yes, and I was thinking of the two limp carrots in the fridge at home, and that I might not need a whole bag of carrots but could probably do with about four large ones which I could buy from the Seven Sisters. Four carrots. Then my attention returned to the music. Don't ask me why.
I expect it was guilt.
Maybe it was. And I thought, is it possible that as I'm thinking of carrots I might hear carrots in the music? It had certainly been possible for me to hear other things which hadn't been there.
The reverse process, said Pliny sagely. This time you are thinking of something beforehand and then searching for it within the music.
That's right.
And did you find it?
Yes.
So, the question is, what did it sound like?
It sounded like four orange notes, rounded, but pointy at the end.
Remarkable, said Pliny.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Freud on Dali's Bicycle
What a great pleasure it is for me to be invited by my good friends Le Bon David and the VeloDrone to write a series of articles for Velosophy! Today my subject is The Bicycle and Salvador Dali.
Now, the internet abounds in photographs of Dali's bicycles. These bicycles lean with buckled wheels against picturesque walls, as amusing references to Dali's famous melting clocks. Dali's melting clocks were intended by him to represent the irrelevance of time.
Dali came to see me often in the early days, although this fact is nowhere on the public record. Indeed, why should it be? The relationship between a man and his psychoanalyst is a private affair.
My work on dreams had influenced him profoundly. It was the basis for the movement known as Surrealism, of which he was a leading light. He told me he dreamed of ants, of lions' heads, of fish hooks and of half-opened drawers.
My friend, I told him, these things represent your fears. The ants represent death, the lion's head represents both sexual desire and your fear of the aggression of your father. The fish hook represents family ties, which you are unable to escape, while the half-opened drawer represents female sexuality, of which you are afraid.
Then I shall paint these things until I conquer all my fears, he said grandly.
That is all very well, my friend, but what you really need is a hobby, I told him. Have you ever thought about getting a bicycle?
From that moment Dali became obsessed with bicycles. He painted them incessantly. He painted men in bowler hats on bicycles, men with umbrellas on bicycles, lobsters on bicycles. He bought himself a bicycle. He kept it in his studio, although he never rode it.
He began to dream of bicycles. He asked me what these dreams might signify.
You are going on a journey, I told him.
We had a great debate about the matter. He thought my interpretation was banal. We argued for hours quite heatedly. Eventually I had to tell him that his time was up.
Time! he shouted. Time is irrelevant!
You will not think so when you receive my bill, I said.
He stormed out.
It was immediately after this I believe he dreamed up the story about seeing my bicycle, the red hotwater bottle and the snail, which has plagued me ever since.
Now, the internet abounds in photographs of Dali's bicycles. These bicycles lean with buckled wheels against picturesque walls, as amusing references to Dali's famous melting clocks. Dali's melting clocks were intended by him to represent the irrelevance of time.
Dali came to see me often in the early days, although this fact is nowhere on the public record. Indeed, why should it be? The relationship between a man and his psychoanalyst is a private affair.
My work on dreams had influenced him profoundly. It was the basis for the movement known as Surrealism, of which he was a leading light. He told me he dreamed of ants, of lions' heads, of fish hooks and of half-opened drawers.
My friend, I told him, these things represent your fears. The ants represent death, the lion's head represents both sexual desire and your fear of the aggression of your father. The fish hook represents family ties, which you are unable to escape, while the half-opened drawer represents female sexuality, of which you are afraid.
Then I shall paint these things until I conquer all my fears, he said grandly.
That is all very well, my friend, but what you really need is a hobby, I told him. Have you ever thought about getting a bicycle?
From that moment Dali became obsessed with bicycles. He painted them incessantly. He painted men in bowler hats on bicycles, men with umbrellas on bicycles, lobsters on bicycles. He bought himself a bicycle. He kept it in his studio, although he never rode it.
He began to dream of bicycles. He asked me what these dreams might signify.
You are going on a journey, I told him.
We had a great debate about the matter. He thought my interpretation was banal. We argued for hours quite heatedly. Eventually I had to tell him that his time was up.
Time! he shouted. Time is irrelevant!
You will not think so when you receive my bill, I said.
He stormed out.
It was immediately after this I believe he dreamed up the story about seeing my bicycle, the red hotwater bottle and the snail, which has plagued me ever since.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Ignorance
At the Lunch Hour Concert I was sitting behind four middle aged people who were together. Something nasty had happened in the garden of one of them. One said, Have you seen The Shining? No, said another, have you seen Eyes Wide Shut?
The Chamber Ensemble came on stage in twos and threes. As they appeared some people at the back would clap. This continued disconcertingly as the stage filled up.
The first piece was by William Walton. I don't know a thing about William Walton, except what was in the notes. He wrote some music for a Shakespeare film in the 1940s. A Shakespeare film. Classy.
So, I'm listening. I hear traffic. Sigh. I hear chipmunks. Yuk. I hear bees. Hmm. I hear spooky noises, like the movement of curtains in a dark house at night. William Walton must have written this one for a film as well, I think. A multi-purpose piece. And very 1940s-ish.
They stop playing. The conductor indicates a young man sitting in the sixth row on the left. The composer. He is Stephen Tanoto. He takes a bow.
Thus I realise, and so do the 4 in front of me, that we had not been listening to William Walton.
Ha Ha they laugh. Ha Ha Ha. We didn't think it sounded much like Walton.
Well, I did. But now I know it wasn't. I am miffed, and can't get into this new Walton which they are playing now. Sure it has chipmunks. And traffic, and what's this? Carrots! But I feel cheated. I had been looking forward to the Tanoto. It was based on a chipmunk-free madrigal, and I missed it.
This new Walton madrigal piece was in 4 movements. The people at the back clapped in between, with decreasing confidence.
It ended. The people in front of me clapped ostentatiously, turning towards one another and nodding. That was the Walton alright. We always knew.
The Chamber Ensemble came on stage in twos and threes. As they appeared some people at the back would clap. This continued disconcertingly as the stage filled up.
The first piece was by William Walton. I don't know a thing about William Walton, except what was in the notes. He wrote some music for a Shakespeare film in the 1940s. A Shakespeare film. Classy.
So, I'm listening. I hear traffic. Sigh. I hear chipmunks. Yuk. I hear bees. Hmm. I hear spooky noises, like the movement of curtains in a dark house at night. William Walton must have written this one for a film as well, I think. A multi-purpose piece. And very 1940s-ish.
They stop playing. The conductor indicates a young man sitting in the sixth row on the left. The composer. He is Stephen Tanoto. He takes a bow.
Thus I realise, and so do the 4 in front of me, that we had not been listening to William Walton.
Ha Ha they laugh. Ha Ha Ha. We didn't think it sounded much like Walton.
Well, I did. But now I know it wasn't. I am miffed, and can't get into this new Walton which they are playing now. Sure it has chipmunks. And traffic, and what's this? Carrots! But I feel cheated. I had been looking forward to the Tanoto. It was based on a chipmunk-free madrigal, and I missed it.
This new Walton madrigal piece was in 4 movements. The people at the back clapped in between, with decreasing confidence.
It ended. The people in front of me clapped ostentatiously, turning towards one another and nodding. That was the Walton alright. We always knew.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Parole
The toilet roll was almost finished. Pliny wondered if there was another one.
Do I know if I there's another one? she thought. No, I don't.
Do I know if there isn't another one? she thought. No, I don't.
Then she wondered whether the two statements were the same.
In other words, is it the same not to know whether A exists, as not to know whether A doesn't exist?
Pliny can't think like this for long. She needs examples. She tried to think of some examples.
The first example that came to mind was a toilet roll. This is silly thought Pliny, but I'll see where it leads.
Well, she thought, I'd rather know whether I had one than know whether I didn't. That seems to indicate that the two statements are different. But maybe that is only true when the object is something of importance. What about something of no importance, like a rock?
She imagined a rock on a beach down at Glenelg. Did she know whether it was there or whether it wasn't? She was pretty sure she knew it wasn't. So that line of thought led nowhere.
I know what's wrong, she thought. The existence of the rock and the toilet roll can be verified. I need to think about something that can't, like God. Now, do I know whether God exists? No, I don't. Do I know whether God doesn't exist? No. Do I care? No. Can the existence of God be verified? No. Yes this is a perfect example.
Anyway, by now it had become imperative that Pliny found out whether she did in fact have a spare toilet roll or whether she didn't. She went to look in the bathroom cupboard. She did.
She replaced the empty roll with the new one ( A ). That's funny, she thought. A was the spare toilet roll . Now A doesn't exist, as such. So what I've just found out I knew I had, doesn't exist. That seems to indicate that the two statements are not the same.
A paradox. Oh how I love philosophy.
Do I know if I there's another one? she thought. No, I don't.
Do I know if there isn't another one? she thought. No, I don't.
Then she wondered whether the two statements were the same.
In other words, is it the same not to know whether A exists, as not to know whether A doesn't exist?
Pliny can't think like this for long. She needs examples. She tried to think of some examples.
The first example that came to mind was a toilet roll. This is silly thought Pliny, but I'll see where it leads.
Well, she thought, I'd rather know whether I had one than know whether I didn't. That seems to indicate that the two statements are different. But maybe that is only true when the object is something of importance. What about something of no importance, like a rock?
She imagined a rock on a beach down at Glenelg. Did she know whether it was there or whether it wasn't? She was pretty sure she knew it wasn't. So that line of thought led nowhere.
I know what's wrong, she thought. The existence of the rock and the toilet roll can be verified. I need to think about something that can't, like God. Now, do I know whether God exists? No, I don't. Do I know whether God doesn't exist? No. Do I care? No. Can the existence of God be verified? No. Yes this is a perfect example.
Anyway, by now it had become imperative that Pliny found out whether she did in fact have a spare toilet roll or whether she didn't. She went to look in the bathroom cupboard. She did.
She replaced the empty roll with the new one ( A ). That's funny, she thought. A was the spare toilet roll . Now A doesn't exist, as such. So what I've just found out I knew I had, doesn't exist. That seems to indicate that the two statements are not the same.
A paradox. Oh how I love philosophy.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Wein und Sonnenschein
I have another question, said Pliny the Elder. Why did you caption your photos in bad German?
It wasn't meant to be bad German, I replied. I wanted to use German as a tribute to the German settlers and winemakers of the Barossa. But I admit, I don't know very much German.
So that is why you called the album Wien und Sonnenschein! I thought you were referring to a type of sausage.
You mean Wien? As in Wieners? As in hot dogs? No, I thought I was calling it Wine and Sunshine, but of course it should have been spelled Wein.
That's what can happen when you are pretentious. Did you try any of the local wines, by the way?
We did, and most of them were very good.
Were they indeed? Then the Germans have come a long way since I was in Germania as a commander and tribune during our Germanic campaign. Their wines were very basic then. We had only just introduced the vine into their country. Until then, they had been beer drinkers.
Why did you bother?
We didn't like their beer. And we thought we might be there for a very long time. So we thought we might as well try and produce something drinkable. Something strong, that we could mix with honey, resin, chalk, herbs, or salty water......
Mmm. That does sound nice.
Did you bring any wine home with you, by the way?
We did. But we're saving it for Christmas.
Oh. Well, did you bring home any sausage?
No. I'm very sorry. We didn't bring you anything.
Typisch! Nicht Wein, nicht Wiener, nicht Sonnenschein. Danke schön.
Pliny! What does that mean?
I think you know.
It wasn't meant to be bad German, I replied. I wanted to use German as a tribute to the German settlers and winemakers of the Barossa. But I admit, I don't know very much German.
So that is why you called the album Wien und Sonnenschein! I thought you were referring to a type of sausage.
You mean Wien? As in Wieners? As in hot dogs? No, I thought I was calling it Wine and Sunshine, but of course it should have been spelled Wein.
That's what can happen when you are pretentious. Did you try any of the local wines, by the way?
We did, and most of them were very good.
Were they indeed? Then the Germans have come a long way since I was in Germania as a commander and tribune during our Germanic campaign. Their wines were very basic then. We had only just introduced the vine into their country. Until then, they had been beer drinkers.
Why did you bother?
We didn't like their beer. And we thought we might be there for a very long time. So we thought we might as well try and produce something drinkable. Something strong, that we could mix with honey, resin, chalk, herbs, or salty water......
Mmm. That does sound nice.
Did you bring any wine home with you, by the way?
We did. But we're saving it for Christmas.
Oh. Well, did you bring home any sausage?
No. I'm very sorry. We didn't bring you anything.
Typisch! Nicht Wein, nicht Wiener, nicht Sonnenschein. Danke schön.
Pliny! What does that mean?
I think you know.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Chateau Barrosa
I've been looking at your Facebook photos from your weekend away, said Pliny the Elder, and one thing puzzles me, well, two things actually.
What are they? I asked.
Why is there a grand baroque eighteenth century chateau in the middle of Lyndoch? And why is it called "Chateau Barrosa" ?
Aha! I said. I can tell you the answer to both of those questions. The grand chateau was built less than ten years ago, by a local character called Hermann Thumm. He surrounded it with rose gardens containing 30,000 roses. He called it Chateau Barrosa as a reminder to everyone that the name of the Barossa Valley is mis-spelt.
I do not understand, said Pliny. why anyone would build an 18th century chateau in the middle of the South Australian countryside.
I dont think anybody understands, I replied. That is what it means to be a character. Did you notice that some of the rose gardens looked well tended while some of them were wild and overgrown with weeds?
I did, said Pliny. Why was that?
Because responsibility for the gardens had been split between the Chateau and the Lyndoch Hill Retreat, and the managers of the Retreat had let their side of the gardens go.
What a pity, said Pliny. I suppose you spent most of your time walking on the well-tended side.
No, we didn't, I said. We felt drawn towards the weedy paths, the collapsing trees and entangled bushes, the toppling arches and the broken follies and the choking ponds. We were enchanted by the pathos of the Ballerina Lawn, the Tea Pond and the Magic Sunset Garden, now visited only by birds. We read the names of the thirty thousand roses and marvelled at their strangeness. We sat on a wooden seat and contemplated the vanity of human wishes. Returning, we changed direction twice to avoid a young man careering down the path towards us on a motor mower.
These feelings would be understandable, said Pliny, if your chateau and gardens were really old. But had I been there I would not have wasted my time contemplating the vanity of human wishes. I would have complained about the laziness of the management.
You wouldn't, I replied, if your stay there was a gift.
What are they? I asked.
Why is there a grand baroque eighteenth century chateau in the middle of Lyndoch? And why is it called "Chateau Barrosa" ?
Aha! I said. I can tell you the answer to both of those questions. The grand chateau was built less than ten years ago, by a local character called Hermann Thumm. He surrounded it with rose gardens containing 30,000 roses. He called it Chateau Barrosa as a reminder to everyone that the name of the Barossa Valley is mis-spelt.
I do not understand, said Pliny. why anyone would build an 18th century chateau in the middle of the South Australian countryside.
I dont think anybody understands, I replied. That is what it means to be a character. Did you notice that some of the rose gardens looked well tended while some of them were wild and overgrown with weeds?
I did, said Pliny. Why was that?
Because responsibility for the gardens had been split between the Chateau and the Lyndoch Hill Retreat, and the managers of the Retreat had let their side of the gardens go.
What a pity, said Pliny. I suppose you spent most of your time walking on the well-tended side.
No, we didn't, I said. We felt drawn towards the weedy paths, the collapsing trees and entangled bushes, the toppling arches and the broken follies and the choking ponds. We were enchanted by the pathos of the Ballerina Lawn, the Tea Pond and the Magic Sunset Garden, now visited only by birds. We read the names of the thirty thousand roses and marvelled at their strangeness. We sat on a wooden seat and contemplated the vanity of human wishes. Returning, we changed direction twice to avoid a young man careering down the path towards us on a motor mower.
These feelings would be understandable, said Pliny, if your chateau and gardens were really old. But had I been there I would not have wasted my time contemplating the vanity of human wishes. I would have complained about the laziness of the management.
You wouldn't, I replied, if your stay there was a gift.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Nevertheless
Where were you all weekend? asked Pliny the Elder. I had to buy two takeaway dinners.
Oh sorry, I said. I forgot to tell you. We went to the Barossa Valley for the weekend.
I suppose it was pleasant there? he said, not looking up from his books.
Very pleasant, I replied. Would you like to hear about it?
I should like to hear what you had to eat, he said wistfully, putting aside his work.
Well, I said, the first night we ate in the Tonic Restaurant at the Lyndoch Hill Retreat where we were staying. I had Lamb and Black Olive Sour Cream Pastry Pie on Buffalo Fetta Mash with Red Capsicum Sauce.
Ahh, said Pliny. That sounds like meat pie and sauce, with mash.
It was. But the lamb was as tender as could be and the olives were piquant and whole. The pastry was the best pastry I have ever had in my life. And the sauce was different because it wasn't tomato sauce.
Nevertheless, said Pliny.
Oh sorry, I said. I forgot to tell you. We went to the Barossa Valley for the weekend.
I suppose it was pleasant there? he said, not looking up from his books.
Very pleasant, I replied. Would you like to hear about it?
I should like to hear what you had to eat, he said wistfully, putting aside his work.
Well, I said, the first night we ate in the Tonic Restaurant at the Lyndoch Hill Retreat where we were staying. I had Lamb and Black Olive Sour Cream Pastry Pie on Buffalo Fetta Mash with Red Capsicum Sauce.
Ahh, said Pliny. That sounds like meat pie and sauce, with mash.
It was. But the lamb was as tender as could be and the olives were piquant and whole. The pastry was the best pastry I have ever had in my life. And the sauce was different because it wasn't tomato sauce.
Nevertheless, said Pliny.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
A Hastily Convened Meeting
Le Bon David and the VeloDrone are somewhat piqued.
Le Bon David: That old devil Freud has got us by the short and curlies!
The VeloDrone: Yes. It's clear he wants to take us over.
Le Bon David: Well I say, let him do his worst.
The VeloDrone: Very philosophical of you.
Le Bon David: Less work for us. And the readers might like it. He's bound to sexualize everything.
The VeloDrone: I'd like to see him sexualize everything!
Le Bon David: The Dali one, definitely. As to the story of the granddaughter, I rather hope he will. But I confess I am most intrigued with his story about Galileo's experiment. Did Galileo even have a bicycle?
The VeloDrone: He must have done.
Le Bon David: We shall have to wait and see. So, we're agreed then? Professor Freud can join the team?
The VeloDrone: Yes, with the greatest of pleasure. But we must try and retain some semblance of control. I'll tell him he must keep his articles brief.
Le Bon David: Alright. But I suggest you don't say 'brief' .
The VeloDrone: Short?
Le Bon David: No, don't say 'short'.
The VeloDrone: Under 300 words?
Le Bon David: Not 'under'.
The VeloDrone: This is going to be hard!
Le Bon David: ARRGH!
Le Bon David: That old devil Freud has got us by the short and curlies!
The VeloDrone: Yes. It's clear he wants to take us over.
Le Bon David: Well I say, let him do his worst.
The VeloDrone: Very philosophical of you.
Le Bon David: Less work for us. And the readers might like it. He's bound to sexualize everything.
The VeloDrone: I'd like to see him sexualize everything!
Le Bon David: The Dali one, definitely. As to the story of the granddaughter, I rather hope he will. But I confess I am most intrigued with his story about Galileo's experiment. Did Galileo even have a bicycle?
The VeloDrone: He must have done.
Le Bon David: We shall have to wait and see. So, we're agreed then? Professor Freud can join the team?
The VeloDrone: Yes, with the greatest of pleasure. But we must try and retain some semblance of control. I'll tell him he must keep his articles brief.
Le Bon David: Alright. But I suggest you don't say 'brief' .
The VeloDrone: Short?
Le Bon David: No, don't say 'short'.
The VeloDrone: Under 300 words?
Le Bon David: Not 'under'.
The VeloDrone: This is going to be hard!
Le Bon David: ARRGH!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Professor Freud Writes a Rough Copy
To the Editors of Velosophy, (no no that will not do...)
Dear comrades, (yes that's better)
Thankyou for your letter which I am inclined to accept in the spirit of an apology, although none was expressed ( hah! ) Never let it be said that Professor Freud cannot read between the lines.
I have given much consideration to your offer to publish any article I might care to write on the subject of bicycles and philosophy. I note that you claim to be unable to offer me any payment for the said article, should I agree to write it. ( leave this out, sounds a bit petty...) This does not concern me. ( no leave it in, after all....)
I shall shortly commence writing an article which I believe your readers will enjoy, on the subject of my old friend and disciple Salvador Dali, and his use of symbolism with special regard to the symbolism of bicycles. I may also mention his hidden fears and desires and his suppressed sexuality resulting from his relationship with his father. Or I may not. ( hee hee, this will put the wind up Le Bon and Vel!)
It is a condition of my acceptance of your offer that you agree to my becoming a regular contributor to your magazine. I have much to say on the subject of bicycles and dreams. I have a very fine anecdote about my granddaughter and her bicycle which is most amusing. I have an interesting experiment made by Galileo that relates to bicycles and.. ( perhaps leave it here for now, they might think I'm pushing it a bit ...)
Looking forward to your positive response, comrades, as I should not like to have to retract my acceptance of your 'apology'. ( should I ?.....)
Professor Sigmund Feud ( oops! ) Freud.
Dear comrades, (yes that's better)
Thankyou for your letter which I am inclined to accept in the spirit of an apology, although none was expressed ( hah! ) Never let it be said that Professor Freud cannot read between the lines.
I have given much consideration to your offer to publish any article I might care to write on the subject of bicycles and philosophy. I note that you claim to be unable to offer me any payment for the said article, should I agree to write it. ( leave this out, sounds a bit petty...) This does not concern me. ( no leave it in, after all....)
I shall shortly commence writing an article which I believe your readers will enjoy, on the subject of my old friend and disciple Salvador Dali, and his use of symbolism with special regard to the symbolism of bicycles. I may also mention his hidden fears and desires and his suppressed sexuality resulting from his relationship with his father. Or I may not. ( hee hee, this will put the wind up Le Bon and Vel!)
It is a condition of my acceptance of your offer that you agree to my becoming a regular contributor to your magazine. I have much to say on the subject of bicycles and dreams. I have a very fine anecdote about my granddaughter and her bicycle which is most amusing. I have an interesting experiment made by Galileo that relates to bicycles and.. ( perhaps leave it here for now, they might think I'm pushing it a bit ...)
Looking forward to your positive response, comrades, as I should not like to have to retract my acceptance of your 'apology'. ( should I ?.....)
Professor Sigmund Feud ( oops! ) Freud.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Professor Freud Receives A Letter
Dear Professor Freud,
Please forgive the long interval between our receipt of your letter and our response. My colleague the VeloDrone and I have had many long and philosophical discussions on the issues that you raise, and have come at last to this conclusion:
We have no case to answer.
Dali's story about you, your bicycle, the red hot water bottle and the snail are in the public domain. Indeed we note that the incident has most recently been celebrated in a play.
We meant no disrespect to you by speaking in a lighthearted manner about your bicycle. Our magazine is dedicated to the philosophy of bicycles and bicycling and our intention is to roam both far and wide in this pursuit. We wished, in other words, to honour you, comrade, by your inclusion.
And therefore, dear Professor Freud, we should like to extend an invitation to you to submit an article to Velosophy, on any subject that you wish, as long as it relates to philosophy and bicycles. You may like to consider writing on the subject of your 'scurrilous' friend, Dali. Or perhaps, upon the subject of bicycles and the meaning of their appearance in our dreams. It shall of course be left entirely up to you.
We should point out that we will not be able to pay you for your article, but we would like to think that you will consider it both as an honour to yourself and a token of the good faith of your fellow velosophers,
Le Bon David and the VeloDrone.
Please forgive the long interval between our receipt of your letter and our response. My colleague the VeloDrone and I have had many long and philosophical discussions on the issues that you raise, and have come at last to this conclusion:
We have no case to answer.
Dali's story about you, your bicycle, the red hot water bottle and the snail are in the public domain. Indeed we note that the incident has most recently been celebrated in a play.
We meant no disrespect to you by speaking in a lighthearted manner about your bicycle. Our magazine is dedicated to the philosophy of bicycles and bicycling and our intention is to roam both far and wide in this pursuit. We wished, in other words, to honour you, comrade, by your inclusion.
And therefore, dear Professor Freud, we should like to extend an invitation to you to submit an article to Velosophy, on any subject that you wish, as long as it relates to philosophy and bicycles. You may like to consider writing on the subject of your 'scurrilous' friend, Dali. Or perhaps, upon the subject of bicycles and the meaning of their appearance in our dreams. It shall of course be left entirely up to you.
We should point out that we will not be able to pay you for your article, but we would like to think that you will consider it both as an honour to yourself and a token of the good faith of your fellow velosophers,
Le Bon David and the VeloDrone.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Pliny's Banana Points
I have written my review, announced Pliny the Elder. Would you like to see it?
Yes, I would, I said.
He handed me a scrap of paper, on which was written the following:
Pliny's Women is a most excellent work of research, and for a women to have written it is a great achievement. Pliny the Younger emerges from the pages as a most admirable example of a good public servant. He is intelligent and witty, and politically astute. He is easy with his friends and kind to his female relatives and slaves. He is a man who, rather like myself, is never without his books and notebooks. He does however seem a lot more interested in dining, entertaining, writing poetry and retreating to his country house than I was. If I were to admit to any disappointment in reading this book it would relate to the matter of tone. I cannot help detecting a certain note of amusement in the author as she describes some of my nephew's characteristics. I must say that what may seem to her to be bumptiousness and lack of literary talent are a matter of opinion and the current fashion. If I may end upon a lighter note, and still on the subject of tone, I think that the choice of pink for the cover of the book was most unwise.
Wow, Pliny, I said, That's good! And funny too.
Funny? he said. What do you mean?
The bit at the end about the pink cover, and the joke about the tone, that's funny.
Oh, he said, looking pleased. Thankyou. Do you think it will earn me the 774 points?
No, I said.
Why not?
Because, I guess you didn't notice, but you've already earned 774 points when you purchased the book. It was printed on the invoice. If you write a review, you earn a further 50 points.
Great Jupiter! said Pliny. If I'd known that, I wouldn't have bothered writing it.
Yes, I would, I said.
He handed me a scrap of paper, on which was written the following:
Pliny's Women is a most excellent work of research, and for a women to have written it is a great achievement. Pliny the Younger emerges from the pages as a most admirable example of a good public servant. He is intelligent and witty, and politically astute. He is easy with his friends and kind to his female relatives and slaves. He is a man who, rather like myself, is never without his books and notebooks. He does however seem a lot more interested in dining, entertaining, writing poetry and retreating to his country house than I was. If I were to admit to any disappointment in reading this book it would relate to the matter of tone. I cannot help detecting a certain note of amusement in the author as she describes some of my nephew's characteristics. I must say that what may seem to her to be bumptiousness and lack of literary talent are a matter of opinion and the current fashion. If I may end upon a lighter note, and still on the subject of tone, I think that the choice of pink for the cover of the book was most unwise.
Wow, Pliny, I said, That's good! And funny too.
Funny? he said. What do you mean?
The bit at the end about the pink cover, and the joke about the tone, that's funny.
Oh, he said, looking pleased. Thankyou. Do you think it will earn me the 774 points?
No, I said.
Why not?
Because, I guess you didn't notice, but you've already earned 774 points when you purchased the book. It was printed on the invoice. If you write a review, you earn a further 50 points.
Great Jupiter! said Pliny. If I'd known that, I wouldn't have bothered writing it.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Excellent Women
Pliny's nose was buried in his book.
How's it going, Pliny? I asked.
He looked up, wiping a tear from his eye.
Ah, he said. My nephew was an excellent young man. This book is all about the various women mentioned in his letters. And it would seem he hardly had a bad word to say of any of them. Indeed, he seems to have been quite famous for his descriptions of ideal Roman women.
Oh that's lovely, Pliny, I said. Tell me more.
Well, he said, my nephew was married three times, but it was his last wife, Calpurnia, to whom he was the most devoted, and she to him. She was very young when they married, and she was very interested in his career. She used to send for news of how his speeches were received, and at home she would sit behind a curtain during readings of his works, listening eagerly to the comments and the praises of his friends.
Did she indeed?
She did. And when she had to go to the country for her health he used to write to her most tenderly of how he missed her.
That's really nice.
It is. And furthermore, he wote of a Roman woman called Arria, who was a model of Roman courage and restraint.
What did she do?
Her husband and son were dying at the same time. The son died first. but she did not tell her dying husband, wishing to spare him the sad knowledge. She cried in private, but kept a cheerful face in front of him. When it became evident that her husband wished to kill himself to avoid further agony, she took a sword and plunged it into her own breast, saying to him as she died, Paetus, it does not hurt. This gave him the courage to do the same.
Good gracious, Pliny. Such behaviour would not be viewed as admirable today. What she did was totally demented.
That may well be. She did have a history of threatening to do away with herself. But you know we Romans were rather obsessed with dying a noble death.
So I've heard. Anyway, I'm glad you're pleased with Pliny the Younger's women. Now you can write that review and earn your banana points towards the poster.
Oh yes! I had forgotten about the poster!
How's it going, Pliny? I asked.
He looked up, wiping a tear from his eye.
Ah, he said. My nephew was an excellent young man. This book is all about the various women mentioned in his letters. And it would seem he hardly had a bad word to say of any of them. Indeed, he seems to have been quite famous for his descriptions of ideal Roman women.
Oh that's lovely, Pliny, I said. Tell me more.
Well, he said, my nephew was married three times, but it was his last wife, Calpurnia, to whom he was the most devoted, and she to him. She was very young when they married, and she was very interested in his career. She used to send for news of how his speeches were received, and at home she would sit behind a curtain during readings of his works, listening eagerly to the comments and the praises of his friends.
Did she indeed?
She did. And when she had to go to the country for her health he used to write to her most tenderly of how he missed her.
That's really nice.
It is. And furthermore, he wote of a Roman woman called Arria, who was a model of Roman courage and restraint.
What did she do?
Her husband and son were dying at the same time. The son died first. but she did not tell her dying husband, wishing to spare him the sad knowledge. She cried in private, but kept a cheerful face in front of him. When it became evident that her husband wished to kill himself to avoid further agony, she took a sword and plunged it into her own breast, saying to him as she died, Paetus, it does not hurt. This gave him the courage to do the same.
Good gracious, Pliny. Such behaviour would not be viewed as admirable today. What she did was totally demented.
That may well be. She did have a history of threatening to do away with herself. But you know we Romans were rather obsessed with dying a noble death.
So I've heard. Anyway, I'm glad you're pleased with Pliny the Younger's women. Now you can write that review and earn your banana points towards the poster.
Oh yes! I had forgotten about the poster!
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Subjunctive Moods
That bird is insane, said Pliny the Elder. No bird is capable of using the subjunctive.
You mean Victor? I said. I agree he is a bit eccentric, but you must admit he is a bird himself. And that he made direct use of the subjunctive.
Hmmph! said Pliny, unreasonably. Use of the subjunctive mood in English is easy. But if....
Just then the doorbell rang loudly. It was a courier with a parcel addressed to Pliny the Elder.
Pliny opened it. Inside was another parcel, wrapped. He began to tear at the wrapping paper.
This will be my book, he said. At last!
The wrapping paper fell away to reveal a large hard-backed book, entitled Pliny's Women.
He stared at the book with distaste.
What's the matter Pliny? Is it the wrong book? I asked.
No, he said. It's the right book, but look! The cover is pink!
It looks quite tasteful, I said soothingly. I suppose the publishers chose pink because the book's about women, and it was written by a woman.
Great Jupiter, was it? Pliny looked even more alarmed.
Don't worry Pliny, if you don't like it, I'll cover it with brown paper. I've got a big roll of it in the pantry.
If you would, said Pliny.
You mean Victor? I said. I agree he is a bit eccentric, but you must admit he is a bird himself. And that he made direct use of the subjunctive.
Hmmph! said Pliny, unreasonably. Use of the subjunctive mood in English is easy. But if....
Just then the doorbell rang loudly. It was a courier with a parcel addressed to Pliny the Elder.
Pliny opened it. Inside was another parcel, wrapped. He began to tear at the wrapping paper.
This will be my book, he said. At last!
The wrapping paper fell away to reveal a large hard-backed book, entitled Pliny's Women.
He stared at the book with distaste.
What's the matter Pliny? Is it the wrong book? I asked.
No, he said. It's the right book, but look! The cover is pink!
It looks quite tasteful, I said soothingly. I suppose the publishers chose pink because the book's about women, and it was written by a woman.
Great Jupiter, was it? Pliny looked even more alarmed.
Don't worry Pliny, if you don't like it, I'll cover it with brown paper. I've got a big roll of it in the pantry.
If you would, said Pliny.
Famous Birds
Squawk!! tch tch tch! came a noise at the window.
It was Victor, the talking budgie! He was cross, as usual.
Tch tch! You think birds can't ask? We can ask! Squawk! My Betty, she was always asking. Victor! Victor! what if we get married? Victor! Victor, if you don't give me a kiss I bite you!
Extraordinary, Victor! What about your other friends?
Squawk! Famous birds! Famous Birds! Let me tell you. Pierre the Penguin! Tch. First penguin, he was, to have a wetsuit made for himself. Made to cover his bald spots. I tell you. He could speak in conditional! Tch. Tch. He said to his friend Pam, Pam, if you don't make it a black one, I'll be a laughing stock at the pool !
Good heavens! How complex! Have you any more stories like that?
Yesss!! Tch! Tch! Famous Cher Ami! Carrier pigeon shot down by the Germans in World War I. He saved a regiment. Was wounded. Blinded. Lost a leg. He said to them, Chaps! chaps! if you would make me a wooden leg, I should be as eternally grateful to you as you should be to me. So they did.
This is even more complex and amazing! Go on.
Famous birds !! Squawk! Herbie, skateboarding duck, my friend, my very good friend! He was famous. He skateboarded for 4 seconds in a BBC film in 1978. He said to them afterwards, If you like I could do it again. But they didn't want him to. So he said, if you don't let me do it again, I won't do any interviews.
Have you got any more of these wonderful friends ?
Tch. Yes! Yes! Mike the Headless Chicken. He lived for 18 months after his head was chopped off and a cat ate it. Brrr! Horrible!
Surely he couldn't talk!
Not afterwards! But before that. He used to say to me, Victor! Victor! If they ever chop off my head, I beg you, don't let them feed it to the cat!
But the cat got it! you just said.
Tch! If only Victor had got there in time. Squawk! The story of my life!! Tch Tch!
It was Victor, the talking budgie! He was cross, as usual.
Tch tch! You think birds can't ask? We can ask! Squawk! My Betty, she was always asking. Victor! Victor! what if we get married? Victor! Victor, if you don't give me a kiss I bite you!
Extraordinary, Victor! What about your other friends?
Squawk! Famous birds! Famous Birds! Let me tell you. Pierre the Penguin! Tch. First penguin, he was, to have a wetsuit made for himself. Made to cover his bald spots. I tell you. He could speak in conditional! Tch. Tch. He said to his friend Pam, Pam, if you don't make it a black one, I'll be a laughing stock at the pool !
Good heavens! How complex! Have you any more stories like that?
Yesss!! Tch! Tch! Famous Cher Ami! Carrier pigeon shot down by the Germans in World War I. He saved a regiment. Was wounded. Blinded. Lost a leg. He said to them, Chaps! chaps! if you would make me a wooden leg, I should be as eternally grateful to you as you should be to me. So they did.
This is even more complex and amazing! Go on.
Famous birds !! Squawk! Herbie, skateboarding duck, my friend, my very good friend! He was famous. He skateboarded for 4 seconds in a BBC film in 1978. He said to them afterwards, If you like I could do it again. But they didn't want him to. So he said, if you don't let me do it again, I won't do any interviews.
Have you got any more of these wonderful friends ?
Tch. Yes! Yes! Mike the Headless Chicken. He lived for 18 months after his head was chopped off and a cat ate it. Brrr! Horrible!
Surely he couldn't talk!
Not afterwards! But before that. He used to say to me, Victor! Victor! If they ever chop off my head, I beg you, don't let them feed it to the cat!
But the cat got it! you just said.
Tch! If only Victor had got there in time. Squawk! The story of my life!! Tch Tch!
Friday, October 2, 2009
Schubirdt
It was another Lunch Hour Concert. Pliny was there with her mum. The Benaud Trio were going to play Schubert's Piano Trio No 2 in E flat major. Pliny doesn't know if she knows it.
I like Schubert, she had confidently said to her mum, while they were eating lunch.
Pliny likes Schubert because she likes Death and the Maiden, The Miller's Beautiful Daughter, A Winter Journey, and the Trout Quintet. And because she knows something of the tragic life of Schubert, who died of syphilis quite young. So that except for the Trout Quintet, which is funny, she thinks all Schubert's other music is quite passionate and sad.
So she is sitting in the seventh row in the Elder Hall, expecting to hear something passionate and sad.
She wonders idly whether Schubert would have composed the same music had he not had syphilis, and known that he was soon to die young.
She wonders if that is a legitimate question. She thinks that it probably is. Only humans can ask 'what if ' questions, she thinks. Animals and birds can't.
The music, which has begun, is tinkly like birds. What questions do birds ask, she asks herself. She listens to the music a little, and thinks of birdy questions.
Is this an enemy? Shall I peck out its eyes?
Yes, these are birdy questions, but not complex conditional questions like,
If this man has syphilis, should I peck out his eyes?
At this stage Pliny realises that the music is not passionate and sad at all, but quite triumphal..
I like Schubert, she had confidently said to her mum, while they were eating lunch.
Pliny likes Schubert because she likes Death and the Maiden, The Miller's Beautiful Daughter, A Winter Journey, and the Trout Quintet. And because she knows something of the tragic life of Schubert, who died of syphilis quite young. So that except for the Trout Quintet, which is funny, she thinks all Schubert's other music is quite passionate and sad.
So she is sitting in the seventh row in the Elder Hall, expecting to hear something passionate and sad.
She wonders idly whether Schubert would have composed the same music had he not had syphilis, and known that he was soon to die young.
She wonders if that is a legitimate question. She thinks that it probably is. Only humans can ask 'what if ' questions, she thinks. Animals and birds can't.
The music, which has begun, is tinkly like birds. What questions do birds ask, she asks herself. She listens to the music a little, and thinks of birdy questions.
Is this an enemy? Shall I peck out its eyes?
Yes, these are birdy questions, but not complex conditional questions like,
If this man has syphilis, should I peck out his eyes?
At this stage Pliny realises that the music is not passionate and sad at all, but quite triumphal..
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