Existence Continued

And take the day before. I was at my mum's. She was planting out some new lobelias and petunias that she'd bought. I was watching her.

She was planting the lobelias in a wide shallow bowl. She made six indentations in the dirt with a trowel. This was the first time it occurred to me to ask if I could help.

I didn't ask. She squeezed the lobelias from the plastic punnet one by one and set them in the holes. Then she pressed the earth around them tightly till they stood up by themselves.

She made six more holes for six petunias. She'd been bent over that bowl for quite some time. She's eighty three. This was the second time it occurred to me to ask if I could help.

I didn't ask, but stood over her drinking my cup of tea. Hers was inside somewhere getting cold. I wondered if she'd started feeling dizzy.

She pressed the six petunias into place. There was one more punnet of petunias left to plant. She'd already made four holes in the centre of the bowl, before it occurred to me that I might ask if I could help. I didn't ask. There, that's all there's room for, she said, pressing in four of the last six plants. She straightened up.

That does look nice, I said. Yes, she said, now let's just hope it rains. Would you mind getting that watering can from over there. There might still be some water in it, and you could water them in.

Existence

Take today. I'm in the car, a passenger. We need to get some petrol. I rifle through my petrol vouchers. Three of them are out of date. I screw them up. I don't have anywhere to put them. I hold them in my hand until we get to where were going. It's an industrial complex. I toss them in a Hippo Bin.

We're meeting a man there. He's going to give us some things. They are in cardboard boxes. You'd better look inside, says the man. One of the boxes contains cds and paper instructions, and a gold bottle top. I get the gold bottle top to hold. I hold the bottle top all the way to the Fish Factory, which is our next stop. There's a winged shield on the bottle top, or a winged helmet, if you look at it the other way up. It's sharp and cuts into my palm. At the Fish Factory I toss it in the bin near the door.

Now I'm handsfree again. But we still haven't got the petrol. We stop at a petrol station. I look through my petrol vouchers and discover another one that's expired. I screw it up. There's a bin but it's for paper towels. I clutch the screwed up voucher in my hand all the rest of the way home.

Contradictions

It's last night. Well, no it can't be, but let us say that it is. I am trying to delete a comment on Facebook.

It came about like this. Dresses are in, this summer. I've been making myself a dress. Getting carried away, I mentioned it several times on Facebook. Eventually my daughter took the bait. Who is the mysterious dress for? she wrote. Are you afraid it is for you? I replied. Yes, she answered. Fear not, said I, it is for me.

Then, in order to show her that, had I made the dress for her, she would have liked it, I took a photo and uploaded it onto my page. What do you think? I asked.

Last night we had a conversation in which the dress figured briefly. Suffice to say that after this I decided to delete both the photograph and the final question, 'what do you think ?', as now I knew the answer.

So, it is last night. I am trying to delete a comment. I press delete. Are you sure you want to delete this comment, says Facebook, rudely.

Yes, I say.

Your comment is deleted, says Facebook.

Good, I say.

But a few minutes later I see that my comment is still there.

I press delete.

This comment has already been deleted, says Facebook. The comment does not exist.

Well, I think to myself, I can see it. Where does that leave me?

The Bicycle Detective Part 4

That's it, said Pliny the Elder. What do you think?

I love it, I said, but I'm wondering whether I gave you some bad advice.

What was it? asked Pliny.

When I told you to ditch the toga, because it revealed who you were. I didn't realise your costume was a crucial part of the plot.

It was? said Pliny, surprised.

Well yes, it was. The New Lifers thought you were the Messiah because you were wearing it. But the readers of Velosophy won't know that you were wearing it unless you tell them.

But then everyone will know that it was me, said Pliny.

Yes, that is the dilemma that you must resolve, I said. I don't see how you can get out of it really. You can't just introduce a character who happens to be walking around the streets at night in a toga for no particular reason.

What if it were a dressing gown? asked Pliny hopefully.

A dressing gown! These are not the sort of people who would be duped by a dressing gown, I said firmly.

Well, then, said Pliny. I must reintroduce the toga. Goodbye privacy!

The Bicycle Detective Part 3

How's it going? I asked Pliny the Elder.

He looked up. Nearly finished, he said. It's not as easy as I thought, to write a story.

But it's a true story isn't it? I said.

Oh yes, he replied. But it's all in the telling. Now that I've reached the denouement, I'm wondering how to reveal it.

Just write what happened next, I suggested. What did happen next?

Very well. After half an hour standing under a wind-tossed tree expecting any minute to be caught in a storm, Gaius was about to go home. But just then he noticed the two bicyclists illuminated in the doorway of the church hall. They appeared to be waving goodbye to the people inside. Hurrying down the steps they headed for the bicycles. Gaius made a split-second decision.

That's good, I said, encouragingly. A split-second decision! You know how to make it exciting.

No I don't, said Pliny. And don't interrupt. Gaius crossed the road. He approached the mysterious bicyclists. I beg both your pardons, he said. But would you please tell me what goes on in there?

Oh, said the first cyclist, the one with the case. I'm awfully sorry but we really can't stay. We have to get back to our own music practice before we are missed. You see we've been moonlighting. Why don't you go in and meet some of the nice folks inside. They will be only too happy to see you. By the way, can you sing? Why yes, said Gaius, as a matter of fact I have a fine tenor voice.

Oh Pliny, I said. Do you have a fine tenor voice?

I do, he said. But as soon as Gaius said it he knew he'd be sorry.

Did he go in? I asked.

He didn't want to. But by then it was too late. Several members of the New Life community had come out to see what was happening. They drew him up the steps and into the hall. Inside the hall all the New Lifers crowded around him. Some of them smiled at him shyly. One or two patted his garment. They set up a chair on the stage and led him up to it. Then they knelt on the floorboards around him with their heads bowed and their palms together, as if waiting for something.

Pliny, they thought you were the Messiah! What did you do?

I sang Down By the Sally Gardens, and Molly on the Shore. Then I excused myself and went home. They all came out to wave me goodbye and asked me to come back again next Tuesday.

The Bicycle Detective Part 2

Pliny the Elder wrote for a while, then paused.

Should I give myself a name, do you think? he asked.

Instead of 'the man'. Yes I do, I said.

I was thinking of Gaius, he said, matter-of-factly.

It sounds a bit...... Roman, I said. How about Guy?

No, I like Gaius, said Pliny. Let me try it. Da de da..... It wasn't long before Gaius saw something mysterious happen. A figure emerged from the building on the opposite corner, carrying a large case. The figure crossed Portrush Road and went straight to the first bicycle. Having unchained it, he got on the bicycle and rode off down Dover Street in a westerly direction. Gaius was just about to start after him, when a second figure emerged from the same building, crossed Portrush Road, unchained the second bicycle, mounted it and rode off in the same direction as the first rider had done, but much faster. Gaius followed as best he could, keeping to the shadows of the trees.

But how could he keep up with the bicycles? I asked, disbelievingly.

He couldn't, said Pliny. But luckily for him the bicycles weren't going very far. He could already see that a few hundred metres down the road they had both stopped outside the Maylands Austral-Asian New Life Community Church.

And gone inside? I asked.

Yes, and gone inside, he replied. I, that is to say Gaius, walked up to the Church and stood behind a tree opposite, to observe the building. It was all lit up and there were sounds of joyful off-key singing floating out through the doors and towards his ears.

Oh yes, I said. It must have been Tuesday, their singing practice night.

You knew? said Pliny, looking surprised.

I did, I said. We've often passed that church on Tuesday night and heard their joyful off-key singing.

Well, well, said Pliny, if I had known you knew that, it would have saved me a lot of time and research. Now I suppose you are going to tell me you know that the building on the corner of Portrush Road opposite Dover Street is the Trinity Gardens Seventh Day Adventist Church and that their music practice is held on the very same night.

No, I wasn't going to tell you, I said.

Good, said Pliny. Then go away and let me get on with writing my story.

The Bicycle Detective Part 1

Right, said Pliny the Elder. I think I'm ready to begin my first draft. Hmm dm dm dm dm...It was a dark and stormy night....

Pliny, I said. I couldn't help overhearing. May I suggest you don't use that as a beginning.

Why not? asked Pliny, looking surprised. It WAS a dark and stormy night.

Yes but that was how Snoopy always used to start his stories in the Peanuts cartoons, I said. It sets the wrong sort of tone.

Oh, very well, said Pliny. It was a dark and windy night, with the possibility of storms. How's that?

Good, I said.

Two bicycles were chained to two posts within metres of each other on Dover Street, near to the corner of Portrush Road. A man, lurking behind a tree, on the opposite side of Dover Street, shivered and wrapped his toga more tightly around his body.

It's you! I said.

How did you know? asked Pliny.

The toga, I said.

Perhaps I should change it, said Pliny, looking uncertain.

Well yes, if you don't want anyone to know that it's you, I said kindly.

.....and wrapped his arms more tightly around his body, continued Pliny seamlessly. He was keeping an eye on the bicycles, which he thought should not have been where they were. There were two possibilities, he thought. First, that the bicycles were there for the night, to be used in the morning for riding to work or to school. This did not make much sense. The owners would surely have taken their bicycles onto their property, and not chained them up in the street. All the nearby houses had large gardens, he could see. The second possibility was that the bicycles were there for some dubious purpose, and if that was the case, he wanted to know what it was. He rather hoped it would turn out to be the latter.

Why did he hope that? I asked.

Obviously, then he wouldn't have to stay out all night, said Pliny.

And did he have to stay out all night?

No, he didn't.

So you have solved it?

Yes, said Pliny, I have. Now please be quiet while I get on with writing it down.

Something To Do

Your front garden looks very tidy, said Pliny the Elder, walking up the path.

Yes, I've pulled up all this grass, I said.

You deserve a grass crown, said Pliny, smiling.

What's that? I asked.

Oh, we used to award them to generals who had accomplished great deeds, said Pliny. And we didn't award them lightly.

Will you make me one? I asked.

Oh no, I am far too busy, said Pliny.

Why, what are you doing?

I'm continuing my investigations, said Pliny mysteriously.

Into the bicycles on Dover Street?

Yes, and I believe I am close to solving the puzzle, he said, looking up and down the road to see if anyone was eavesdropping.

How? I asked.

By the use of the street directory, google maps and the internet, not to mention some very tedious footwork and a great deal of standing, or perhaps I should say lurking, behind trees under cover of night.

Oh Pliny, how thrilling! And will you tell me what you know so far?

No, said Pliny.

Not even a clue? I said pleadingly.

Well, said Pliny, relenting. I believe it has something to do with the New Life Community Church.

A Negative Gardener

Now it is cool, Pliny is catching up on some gardening. She is in the front garden, gardening the only way she knows how.

Pliny gardens with a dinner knife. It is a very short dinner knife, now. She uses it to gouge out the grass that grows vigorously between the pavers at the edge of the almost dead lawn. She has long since stopped thinking that this is a paradox. She just gets down to it, and pulls out grass with the dinner knife, which is short due to the ravages of friction.

There is an art to ripping out grass from between pavers. Pliny has not mastered it yet. She uses her thumb delicately enough, and knows how to grasp just the right amount of grass between it and the flat blade of the knife so that when she yanks it she won't fall over backwards. But she doesn't know how to deal with the flat cushion of tiny grass roots that remain to sprout another day. Nor can she protect her knuckles from the fate that has befallen the knife.

Her back hurts. I'm a negative gardener, thinks Pliny.

Chicken Wednesday

Pliny was getting her diary up to date, She hadn't written anything since last Wednesday.

Pliny's motto is No Day Without A Line. She took the motto from someone she read about in Brewers. The person lived in classical times and was a painter. So 'line' would have meant something different to him. Pliny likes this.

Pliny hasn't lived up to her motto. After ten years of being fairly strict she let her standards lapse. This coincided with the time she started blogging. However, she still likes to keep her diary looking as though there has been no day without a line.

But last night, she came up against a blank. What had she done last Wednesday? She thought for a minute and couldn't remember anything. She left two lines empty and started writing about Thursday. She knew exactly what she'd done on Thursday. Ditto Friday. And Saturday, which day it currently was.

And now she was faced with the four blank lines for Wednesday. She wrote: What shall I do? I have forgotten everything about this day. I do know it was hot though, and we may have had chicken for tea.

Then in a flood of remorse she added: And we may not.

She thought of the chicken, not properly remembered. She drew a little chicken after the word 'not'. It was a good chicken. It looked feisty. She drew a speech bubble coming out of its mouth. Don't you know? it said.

The Beauty Of Cool

It was cooler today. Although the heat still lingered in pockets. And damp, too.

Pliny and Nostradamus went to town to do some Christmas shopping. They walked across the parklands under a powder grey sky, a sharp scent of eucalyptus rising from the earth.

In David Jones Pliny bought a tin of Love Balm. You've been pre-approved for a David Jones American Express card, said the shop assistant. But I don't want one, said Pliny. This would be the worst possible time in the entire history of the planet to get one, she thought, but did not add.

They bought some socks, and Christmas stickers, then walked down Rundle Street. They could see the distant hills. Olive grey hills, covered in a faint and steamy mist. Pliny was thinking: everything is grey today. A man walked by in red shoes.

On their way home, Pliny and Nostradamus stopped in Norwood to shop. They walked through a hot corridor, smelling of yesterday, to The Parade. The Parade was blocked off to all traffic. A crowd, gathered near a row of red racing cars, chatted in a desultory way.

Worst Walk

Well, well, said Pliny the Elder. I've been invited to write an article for Velosophy.

What! I said. Have you? But you don't know anything about bicycles.

That does not seem to matter, said Pliny grandly. My reputation as a natural historian is sufficient to recommend me.

Well done then, I said. And congratulations. But you do know, don't you, that it will have to have bicycles in it. Or at least one bicycle. And I remember you telling me there weren't any bicycles in ancient Rome.

Yes, but there are bicycles everywhere nowadays, said Pliny. In fact they seem to be proliferating like flies. Have you noticed that where there used to be one chained up to a post every night on the corner of Dover Street and Portrush Road, now there are two?

I have noticed, I said. I can't imagine what circumstances could have resulted in that. Can you?

No, said Pliny. But I intend to investigate further. I shall go out tonight for a walk and observe what happens on Dover Street.

Good luck, I said. You will have to be there at exactly the right moment or you won't be any the wiser.

Perhaps I might enlist your aid then, said Pliny. You always go for an evening stroll.

Certainly. I shall keep my eyes open tonight, I said helpfully. Unless of course tonight is like last night.

Why, what happened last night?

I walked home very fast with my eyes covered.

My, that does sound dangerous. Why on earth was that?

The worst walk ever, I replied. Thunder and lightning; the sky was black and fluoro pink. A massive wind got up and the air was filled with dust. We hurried home to avoid being killed by falling branches.

Falling branches? Pliny looked alarmed.

Perhaps I'll postpone my investigations for a day or two, he said.

Pure Narrative

Un..bee...leivable! whistled the VeloDrone. They loved Freud's story about his granddaughter's bicycle. Just look at all these comments!

Le Bon David shook his head. I don't understand it, he said. I thought we had a better class of readers than that. It was nothing but pure narrative with no philosophical content at all.

Steady on, said the VeloDrone, it was your idea to tell them that anything could be considered philosophy as long as it had a bike in it.

Oh please! snapped Le Bon David. Don't tell me you don't understand irony either.

Yes, yes, of course I do, David, I'm just saying we shouldn't be surprised. Now look at this comment here. It's from a chap called Gaius Plinius Secundus. He says it's a very moving story, full of wisdom and nobility. He says he's going to recommend our magazine to all his friends.

Did you say Gaius Plinius Secundus, VeloDrone?

Yes.

The famous Pliny the Elder?

Why yes, I suppose so, David.

Here's a thought. What say we ask him to contribute an article? Now that would be something worth reading, I'll bet you a farthing.

Hee Hee! A penny farthing ! But yes it's time we took back control of our magazine. Submitting to blackmail is no way to guarantee quality.

It certainly isn't. One only has to remember the fake Stephen Hawking debacle. Alright. I'll get on to Pliny tonight.

Freud's Granddaughter's Bicycle

Oh look! said Pliny the Elder. Here's the latest edition of Velosophy! I wonder what it will be about today?

So do I, I said. Why don't you read it out to me?

Alright, said Pliny. I will. And he began to read:

Comrade Velosophers! The VeloDrone and I are pleased to bring you the second in a series of articles by the esteemed Professor Freud! He has once again produced something that we are sure will surprise and delight you. You may think it has little to do with philosophy. We beg you not to judge too hastily. We are of the opinion that philosophy encompasses nearly everything, especially if there is a bicycle in it. Please enjoy:

Hmmph! said Pliny. This sounds as if it might not be any good!

Go ahead and read it, I urged. We ought to trust the editors.

So Pliny read on:

Dear readers, I have a little tale to tell, about my granddaughter Sophie and her bicycle. I learned this story on reading her recently published book, 'Living in the shadow of the Freud family'. I had no idea about it at the time, which was in 1938, the year before my death, for I was not then living in Paris.

Sophie and her mother were living in Paris however. They had moved there from Austria which was no longer a safe place for Jews. Sophie was 14 years old , and attended the Lycee Jean de la Fontaine, in Passy, about 8 miles from their flat. She was supposed to catch a bus to school, but preferred to ride her bicycle, although her mother had forbidden it. She used her bus money to keep her bicycle safe in a garage while she was at school.

But soon, the Paris authorities introduced a bicycle tax. Every bicycle was to display a metal plaque costing 200 francs. Sophie had no way of getting 200 francs. She had no pocket money and didn't know the neighbours well at all. So she stole 200 francs from he mother's purse and bought the metal plaque and all was well until her mother confronted her about the missing money.

She asked Sophie if she had taken it. Sophie was afraid she was going to face a dreadful punishment, but she admitted that she had. To her surprise her mother did not even ask her why she had needed the money. She merely observed that next time she needed money she should ask for it. Sophie thought that perhaps her mother was remembering how hard it had been to get things from her husband, from whom she was separated.

Pliny stopped reading. He appeared to have a tear in his eye.

Oh, Pliny, I said. That was a lovely story. You liked it, didn't you?

I did, said he. There is much wisdom in it.

Crisp

Yes, Pliny was right. I was looking at the mirror from my own point of view. We all do that. But we don't always imagine we're a spider. Today I'm not going to imagine anything. I'm just going to describe how in this hot weather everything is crisp.

Not cold and crisp, dry and crisp.

I will choose a particular street as an example. It may be Verdun Street, which is across Magill Road and three down from where we live.

Once, a man on a bicycle stopped and asked me for Verdun Street. I'd lived here for years but at that time I didn't know where it was. It wouldn't have mattered but he'd asked if I was a local and I had said yes, so it was embarrassing that I sent him off towards the hills.

So, let us say it is Verdun Street. Verdun Street is lined with trees and some of them are jacarandas. The jacarandas are all afroth with purple saxaphone-shaped flowers which are already dropping in the heat. When they reach the pavement they shrivel and crisp up.

You walk on them and crackle like a king.

Arachno-Lit

It is questionable, said Pliny the Elder, as to whether the spider which lives behind your car mirror ever 'goes for a wander', as you put it. If it lives behind the mirror, it probably just comes out to check its web and then goes back in.

Therefore, he continued, the spider would be unlikely to become confused because of the mirror. It would emerge and see its web, which would not look like a double web from its point of view. It would then see its victim, should there be a victim, as a single entity. It would not see its own reflection at all.

Your reasoning is correct, Pliny, I replied. As far as it goes. But when the spider turns around to go back behind the mirror, having dealt with its victim, should there have been a victim, it would be then that it would be most likely to become confused. My goodness! It's a lot further home than I thought! it would be thinking. Do you not agree?

Yes, said Pliny, I do agree with that. But it is not what you were arguing yesterday.

No, it isn't, I conceded. But it is interesting how much we can learn from spiders and their behaviour. There are many cultural depictions of spiders in literature, for example.

I suppose you are referring to the spider of Robert the Bruce, said Pliny, or the famous Greek spider princess Arachne. Or perhaps the African spider god Anansi, the well-known comic book character Spider Man, or the spider heroine in Charlotte's Web. Or possibly you refer to Shelob, in Lord of the Rings, Aragog in the Harry Potter story, or the famous 'big spider' in Little Miss Muffett? Or that one called Incy-Wincy?

Well, Pliny, you are very well-versed in arachno-lit! But no, I had in mind my favourite reference to a spider in all of literature, which is from Roadkill by Kinky Friedman.

Roadkill! You surprise me!

Aha! but wait till I tell you what it is. I admire it very much. Kinky is in his office thinking about whether he will take on a case. He is a private detective. He looks up at a framed photograph of Father Damien on his wall. This is the Father Damien who spent 16 years working in a leper colony. Kinky sees a spider making its way slowly across the glass of the photo frame, which reflects the light from the street outside his office. Sometimes I am like Father Damien, he thinks to himself, and sometimes I am more like that spider.

Is that it? asked Pliny.

Yes, it's quite profound, don't you think?

No, I don't, said Pliny. But perhaps it has lost something in the telling.

Spiders Flies Split Bugs and Mirrors

This is the weather for spiders and bugs and flies to come inside. This is the weather for putting off housework.

Therefore the carpet is littered with dead species, some in two parts.

The only way to be sure they are dead is to split them. This can be done by means of the human foot. It is advisable however for the foot to be clad in hard footwear.

After several passes of the footwear over the bug, it will split in two parts, or three. You can leave them in situ. Over time they will shrink into more acceptable deadbug pieces which look like cracked pepper. No one objects to cracked pepper on the carpet, and the pieces can stay there until the hot spell is over.

Of course you can't leave split flies hanging about. Little maggots might come out.

Spiders present another problem. But come to think of it I haven't seen one inside for ages. Except the daddy longlegs in the bathroom several weeks ago. I soon disposed of him and all the legs I could find.

Spiders are tricky. They hide. There is one living behind the outside mirror on the passenger side of our car. I know because there's a web over the mirror. It jiggles in the wind as we drive. It looks very dense because of the mirror. I wonder if this confuses the spider, especially as it's one of those mirrors that makes objects appear further away than they are.

Yes, this must confuse the spider. Coming back from a wander, it sees a double web, a double victim, and a tiny spider self. Ha!

At the Interface

Another hot day. We went to Semaphore. We thought we might go in the water, and wore our swimming things just in case.

The sand was hot. We took off our shoes. How then had we known that the sand was hot? They were not proper shoes.

The sea was tepid and green. Fat people bobbed in the shallows. Three ladies and a man in a stockman's hat. Nine seagulls flew southwards over their heads. Eleven terns flew north. Perhaps I have remembered this wrong.

The terns looked like seagulls wearing unconvincing black hairpieces. Thirty nine of them stood on the shore. Something was afoot.

We walked towards the Semaphore jetty, in the water up to our knees. The middle of the jetty was missing. This was new. Boys were jumping off at the gap, and clambering up the other side. We could see them, in the distance.

Two yachts, on the near horizon, with cream and grey sails like moths' wings, seemed to touch one another lightly.

I looked down at the water and was shocked to see lines of Japanese calligraphy. It was seaweed, tiny brown and black pieces like brushstrokes, floating on the surface of the water. They said, if I read them correctly: Here is the interface, here, and here, and here.

We took the plunge. Immersed ourselves in the sea. It was cold, because our skin was hot. We gasped. And wallowed. Only the interface matters.

I flapped my hands under the water which moved like jelly.

How To Live

How to live. The main subject of philosophy. Knowing how to live is making right choices.
So how did I choose to live today?

It was very hot. I had decided to catch the bus into town. I walked out of the front door. I walked past the bus stop. I didn't want to catch a bus and use my seniors card. After twenty minutes of hotness I chose to stop being a fool.

I met my mum. We had lunch. She wanted a salad, but I wanted sushi. I went to the sushi bar and stood in the queue. Suddenly the queue melted away and I had to choose quickly. I chose the Mixed Pack, without knowing what it contained.

The concert was the last of the series for the year. It was a competition between 2 clarinets, a french horn and a soprano. We thought the soprano would win. It didn't matter what we thought; we weren't the judges. The first of the 2 clarinets won. She had played Stockhausen.

After the competition it was time for refreshments in the foyer. There were 10 plastic cups with 2 cm of champagne in them, and one that was over half full. I chose that one. There were chicken nuggets, sandwiches and vegetarian fritata on offer as well. I took one nugget, and one fritata.

Then, I chose to have an orange juice, for my second drink.

Now it was shopping time. We went to the Oxfam shop and looked at knicknacks, with an eye to Xmas. I thought of buying, but chose not to buy: a paper bowl, a beaded brooch, a wooden cockerel, a jewelled box and a ceramic frog. I chose to buy a painted leather ring. But not before trying on at least ten different ones and dropping one on the floor.

Next I go to the central market. Now I am with someone else. He has seen some cheap and tasty mulloway. He knows it is tasty because he was offered a sample. We decide to buy a large fillet of mulloway. We choose the fillet we will ask for, then someone whips the tray away, to fill it up. We buy a fillet anyway, but we have no idea which one we've got.

Right. So now I'm going to examine my list of actions.

Okay, I'm thinking.... hmmmm ..... oh dear.... but no, not too bad...... it's not very easy, this.

Voice of God: Give yourself a score out of ten!!

Me: Oh what a good idea, thank you God.

Voice of God: Well then?

Me: What?

God; What's your score?

Me: Eight out of ten.

God: I knew it. But I would be more inclined to give you six.

Me: Lucky you're not in charge!

Resilience Continued

And, in the course of the lecture, did you learn how this resilient Australia is being developed? enquired Pliny the Elder, looking somewhat sceptical.

It wasn't a lecture, I replied. It was a panel discussion.

Aha! said Pliny. A panel discussion. Then would it be true to say that you actually learned very little?

Certainly not, I said, although I know what you mean. It was a multidisciplinary discussion. There were three panelists, one from Engineering Innovation in Defence and Systems, one from the School of Law, and one from Education, Arts and Social Science.

Say no more, said Pliny.

No wait, I said. You asked me.

Alright, said Pliny, go on.

Well, first they set up a scenario. It was December 15th 2010. Terrorists had just blown up the Sydney Harbour Bridge, and poisoned Sydney's water supply. Melbourne and Brisbane's water supplies were threatened as well. And at the same time lots of boat people were on their way, and so on and so on. The panellists were supposed to address these issues from the point of view of their own discipline

And what did they say?

The engineer said that engineers were the best people to deal with such things and that they would do so and that we needn't worry too much about that. The lawyer said he was most unhappy that in dealing with the terrorist threat we have allowed our rights to be eroded to such a degree that any soldier can shoot us if he thinks that we might be one.

Good gracious! said Pliny. Is that true?

Apparently, I said. And the social scientist said that we were culturally well equipped to deal with events such as these.

But did they say what we might expect to happen in the event of these dreadful disasters? asked Pliny. What would they do first on learning that the water supply was poisoned? And would they inform the boat people so that they might turn around before it was too late?

No, inexplicably, they only spoke in general terms, and platitudes.

Dear me, said Pliny. It was lucky there were nibbles and wine to compensate at the end. Did you have an opportunity to speak with any of the panellists?

Yes, the social scientist. I asked him what he thought would happen immediately after it was learned the water supply had been poisoned.

And what did he say?

He said what would happen was that a lot of people would die.

Resilience

It's very hot, said Pliny the Elder, fanning himself with a piece of paper.

Yes it is, I agreed. Thirty eight degrees. Thanks to global warming. Would you like an iced coffee?

No thankyou. A glass of water will suffice. And I don't feel very hungry either. What are we having for dinner? Something cold I hope?

Mince, I said. You're welcome to have it cold, but personally I think that would be repulsive.

True, said Pliny. But it would be better than what I had last night.

What was that? I asked.

Nothing, he replied.

Why, aren't you very well? I enquired.

I'm perfectly well, but you were not home at dinner time last night and there was nothing to eat and so I had nothing.

Oh dear, I'm sorry. We went to a lecture in the city. We had nibbles and drinks afterwards.

Oh. Was it nice?

Very nice. Sushi, crumbed prawns, smoked salmon, cheese triangles, spring rolls, wine. And there was such a lot of it. Hardly anybody came, because of the heat. The caterer looked very disappointed. I think he was worried he wouldn't get paid.

What a shame. What was the topic of the lecture?

Resilience. Developing a Resilient Australia in an Age of Uncertainty.

There is a degree of irony in that, said Pliny.

There is, I agreed.

On Stephen Hawking's Wall

10 Comments:


Even I, the divine Dali, have never come up with a concept as slippery as your square root of B, where B may be B, or something else that starts with B ! Brilliantissimo, my astrophysical friend! Contact me if you wish to change the colours of the NanoStrings. I have many fine paints in my paintbox. Salvador Dali.

Congratulations on an interesting article Stephen! Have you looked at lower case b as a possible root? bxb=B. There are a lot more bs than Bs in the universe. Bill Bailey.

Stephen! It pains me to see that you collude with the rest of the world in attributing the 'bicycle-dream/going on a journey' connection to me. Professor Sigmund Freud.

The square root of B. Very existentialist! I like it. Simone De Beauvoir ( The Beaver ) xxx

Square root of Bicycle is wheel! Square root of Bang is Omm! Square root of Backwardness is Nirvana! Just a few random thoughts I had. Cheers! The Buddha.

We love you Stephen! You rock! Babar, Barbie, Bob the Builder, Britney, Bratx xxxxx

Dear Mr Hawking, I don't think your article made very much sense at all. Alice.

I think this magazine should only publish nice stories, such as the one my grandfather has written about me and my bicycle. We are still waiting to see it in print. Who wants to know about the square root of B? Sophie Freud.

Stephen! You seem to be turning into a prankster. Be squared, be very squared! LOL. Albert Einstein.

I do not appreciate being made into a figure of fun, even in an inconsequential magazine such as this. You will shortly be hearing from my lawyers. Real Stephen Hawking.

The Square Root of B

The office of the editors of Velosophy is once again a scene of turmoil and indecision.

Le Bon David: That Stephen Hawking is a CLOWN! The square root of B indeed! Square root of Balderdash more likely!

The VeloDrone: We'll be a laughing stock if we print it.

Le Bon David: What do you mean if ?

The VeloDrone: Well, we could always hold it back.

Le Bon David: No it's too late for that, I signed off on it this morning.

The VeloDrone: What! Had you read it?

Le Bon David: Not properly. I just assumed Stephen Hawking would write something tedious and dull.

The VeloDrone: And instead he's introduced some sort of vulgar competition! I'm surprised he didn't offer a prize. A ROOT-B tee shirt to the winner!

Le Bon David: You know, that's not a bad idea. Maybe we should offer a prize ourselves. Show that it was just a bit of light-hearted fun.

The VeloDrone: David, David! Get a grip! We are philosophers.

Le Bon David: Yes, you're right. And our readers are philosophers as well.

The VeloDrone: Exactly. They won't see the funny side at all.

Stephen Hawking's Backwardness Bicycle

Readers, allow me to introduce myself. I am Stephen Hawking. It is an honour to have been asked by the editors of Velosophy to submit an article on the latest research into the use of bicycles in astrophysics.

I have long been interested in bicycles. I have often dreamed of riding one, but alas that is not to be. However, if you will excuse a jocular reference to a pet theory of Professor Sigmund Freud, I have been on a journey.

It is a journey into astrophysics and the secrets of Black Holes. Or more correctly, the secret of Black Holes, for current theory suggests that there is only one.

As you know, we scientists have come to many dead ends in this field. We are at one now, with the No Hair Theorem and the Black Hole Information Paradox.

In a nutshell, the No Hair Theorem attests that we can observe only three properties of Black Holes: their mass, their charge and their angular momentum. All other information disappears below the Black Hole horizon. Therefore all Black Holes are identical as far as we can see. That is, they have no other observable properties; in other words, No Hair! Quite comical, I'm sure you will agree.

I do not wish to bore my readers. I shall now come to the point. I have read with much interest Salvador Dali's brilliant article referring to his NanoString Bicycle. I too have been thinking along the lines of using bicycles as a way of discovering more about the entropy of Black Holes.

In particular I am interested in following up the String. That most intriguing green, blue and violet String. For the String represents a way of coming back from inside the hole. I am in the process of developing an equation to represent this backward movement. It involves finding the square root of B.

The square root of B ? you ask. Fascinating, but what is B ?

Readers, here is the sticking place. We are looking for suggestions. For as yet we do not know whether it is Bang, or Bicycle, or Backwardness, or, as some suggest, itself, the letter B. This last has some credibility, believe it or not. Astrophysics is agreed by many astrophysicists in their more reflective moments to be reliant on semantics, after all.

So dear cycling philosophers, let me know your ideas. The scientific world is always open to input from people like you.

Tiger Lily Swallows the Sea

Tiger Lily loves Port Noarlunga,
she especially loves it today.
She walks up Clare Street under blue trees and sky
till it's laid out as if on a tray.
She swallows the air, which is draftful and cool
And eats up the lifesavers' tent.
She devours the reef and the jetty
and the steps that are made of cement.

Tiger Lily loves Port Noarlunga
She especially loves it today.
She swallows the sea which is wine green and blue
She swallows the sand and the seaweed too.
She wishes to swallow it all down inside her
if only her tummy were bigger and wider.

Tiger Lily loves Port Noarlunga
She especially loves it today.
She swallows the children
She swallows a ball,
She swallows the cliffs that are crunchy and tall,
She wishes that she could just swallow it all
and keep it forever this way.

Tiger Lily loves Port Noarlunga
She especially loves it today.
She thinks if she could
drink the tide in full flood
and take in the sky
through the gap in her eye,
if she could just bite
at the dog on the right
which is tied to a board
and is being ignored

then this will have been a good day

Too Specific Exorcism No Good

An exorcism is always pronounced at the beginning of the lunch hour concerts:

Ladies and gentlemen may I ask you all to please turn off your mobile phones.

It works, for mobile phones, but it's far too specific, if you ask me. Take today for instance. Marija Bajalica was playing Haydn's Piano Sonata No 38 in F on the piano. How hard would it have been to have added this exorcism before she began:

In the name of the father the son and the holy ghost don't hum please, amen.

Because we were plagued during the entire first movement by a hummer.

And another even stranger spirit had entered the hall untroubled by an exorcism. I saw evidence of this spirit as Marija played Schumann's Etudes Symphoniques. These are a series of variations each more moody than the last, except for the last.

I was watching the hands of Marija, which were long and catlike. I was sad because I couldn't see the tips of her fingers, due to the angle at which I was sitting.

I looked idly down at the floor under the seat of the man in front of me. I saw a square of light, illuminating stiletto marks in the wood, and 2 faint lines where the floorboards joined. Suddenly there appeared in the lower half of the square of light, as though performing on a tiny stage, the shadows of the tips of 3 fingers dancing rhythmically to Marija's etude.

What could they have been but the spirits of Marija's hidden fingers, and how easily could their escape have been prevented?

In the name of the father son and holy ghost keep your hands to yourselves amen.

Short Exorcisms

So, I was wondering, what was the exorcism that was printed in the children's hornbooks? And I googled up some pictures and discovered it was this: In the name of the father and the son and the holy ghost amen.

And I thought, that's not an exorcism. That's just shorthand for an exorcism. And then I remembered last night.

We went to the Annual Hawke Lecture in the Adelaide Town Hall. Professor Ross Garnaut was to lecture on Climate Change. But before the lecture could begin there was an exorcism to perform.

We were exhorted to stand up. We stood up. The governor, his wife and entourage marched with admirable speed through the grand doorway down the central aisle to their positions in the front row. A recording of The Governor's Salute was played.

The Governor's Salute is like two fingers up. The first bar of the national anthem and the last. The effect of this upon the audience is a kind of bafflement, mingled with relief.

& Ampersand

Yes Pliny, but aren't all transformations unlikely? Nevertheless, I know that this is true.

And how, pray, do you know that it is true?

Because, Pliny, I read it , not in Wikipedia but in Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.

Perhaps, then, it was a fable.

No, it is a phrase, which was found in the old hornbooks, I said primly. The character was added after the 26 letters of the alphabet, and was called ampersand as a corruption of 'and per se and'. The ampersand itself is an adaptation of 'et', which as you know means 'and' in Latin.

Nonsense, said Pliny. How do you get from 'et' to that squiggle?

You don't have to. You only need to get from the squiggle back to 'et'.

A good point. And what may I ask is a hornbook?

It's a thin board with a handle, as a backing to a sheet of vellum, and covered by a thin piece of transparent horn. Medieval schoolchildren used them for their lessons.

How delightful, said Pliny. Was anything else written in them?

Numbers, the Lords Prayer, and an exorcism.

Basic, and exemplary, said Pliny.

And per se and

I read your blog yesterday, said Pliny the Elder.

And? I said

And, he said, I wondered about three things.

What were they?

Firstly, did the pearl simply emerge from your leg one day, or was it a transformation?

I believe it was a transformation, Pliny. Many years earlier I had fallen down when playing netball at school, and scraped my leg. I believe that pearl was formed in the manner that an oyster forms a pearl, around an irritation, in this case a tiny piece of grit or stone.

And how did it emerge?

It popped out fifteen years later, with a little help from me.

O marvellous! And secondly what happened to the Grandma?

I don't know, but I wondered if the event had been a scattering.

Surely not. The Grandma was still living, after all.

And thirdly?

Thirdly, what is the meaning of ampersand?

But Pliny, don't you know? It means a sign that means 'and'. It derives from Latin, so I thought you'd know. AND PER SE AND.

That is a transformation as unlikely as the rest.

Sand; Ampersand; Pearl

1. Sand.

We went to the beach twice on the weekend. On Saturday we went to Tennyson. The sand was white and soft and hot. I took off my shoes. The sand was already inside.

The sand was broken and in disarray. A horse had galloped over it. There is a special way of telling that. It is by the marks of the horse's shoes.

The sand was ugly. It looked as though a battle had been fought there. Smashed and bashed.

Heaps of seaweed had fetched up on the sand at regular intervals. Each heap looked like something. A lobster, a duck, a fish, a giant bee, laid flat out.

Under the water the sand was squelchy and sucked at our feet.


2. Ampersand.

On Sunday we were at Brighton. It was a very hot afternoon. The tide was coming in; there was not much sand to stand on, near the rocks north of the jetty.

A party of people stood between the rocks and the sea at the end of a ramp. They looked peculiar. They stood in an informal arrow formation. At the apex, an old lady in a wheelchair, shaded by a yellow and brown fringed parasol. We thought it might be a wedding. A funny wedding.

We went down the steps to the beach south of the jetty. Here there was plenty of sand. The sand was soft and white and hot. I took off my shoes but the sand was already inside.

We finished our walk. I put on my shoes. It was half past four.

Grandma, the wheelchair and parasol had gone. The rest of the party were still there, laughing. I knew that it wasn't a wedding.

At eight thirty we were driving home in the car. I was aware of the sand. The irritating sand. I thought that when I got home there might be pearls between my toes, although toes are not oysters.


3. Pearl.

That is not to say the human body is incapable of producing a pearl. I know that it is. Once, one came out of my leg. To be truthful it wasn't really a pearl. More like a perfectly round tiny grey stone.

Had it been a real pearl, I'd have kept it.