Fortiter araneulas frango

Pliny says No No No to the grapes motto. He thinks I should try 'I am bold when it comes to killing small spiders'.

He says he knows it to be true. He has seen me do it with his own eyes. He says that if it would not spoil the motto, which it would, I ought to make it medium sized spiders.

I ask him why. He says that he has seen me let small spiders live, when they are in the bath or on a page of a book I'm reading. I was unaware that he observed me so closely. He is right though. Small spiders are money spiders and to kill them is bad luck.

I want him to help me with the Latin. He says he won't but he will give me some helpful advice. Don't translate it literally, try for brevity and succinctness.

Let's try the literal. Sum audax dum venit frangere parvas araneas. Yes that does sound rather clunky.

How about 'Boldly I crush small spiders'. Fortiter frango araneas parvas.

That's still too long, says Pliny. You can make it shorter. Use the diminutive.

O clever!

Fortiter frango araneulas! Boldly I crush wee spids.

But Pliny's right. I don't. Just mid-size ones. There's a fundamental problem with this motto.

Omnino Uvis

Today I'm trying out the motto, 'I am made entirely of grapes'.

Pliny thinks this is a silly motto, as I am not made entirely of grapes. But as I said to him, a motto can be something to aspire to.

I like grapes. All kinds of grapes, red grapes, purple grapes, green grapes, yellow grapes. I like the sweet yellow sultana grapes with thin skins that drop off their stalks too easily and are now out of fashion but they were good grapes and in February used to be ridiculously cheap. These are the ones I first thought I might be entirely made of, since I ate them till I burst.

I like sultanas too, the dried ones. I eat some every day with breakfast, and snack on them later in the day. The best ones are plump and soft and wrinkly, and I roll them between my fingers before I pop them in my mouth and burst them open with my teeth.

Once I heard someone saying to her friend, 'I can't stand sultanas, they're soft and jellyish inside, they're so disgusting', and I thought, this person is my opposite number. But sometimes I don't like them either. When they're small and dry and candied I don't like them, but I eat them just the same.

I like to drink red wine and white wine too. See, grapes again! If I get my DNA tested one day it will show I am a true Mince Pie whose motto ought to be: Omnino uvis.

There being no other item of a vegetable nature with which I ply myself so diligently.

Amo marem

I'm trying out the motto, I love the sea, or Amo marem.

I love the sea. I must be near it. If I'm not within half an hour of it, I feel trapped. Travelling inland, I am uneasy, and long to escape to the coast.

That is not strictly true.

This is true: When I am inland in a foreign country, I feel uneasy and long to escape to the coast.

I used to think this was because I am descended from a tribe of coastal dwellers. But perhaps I just want to go home.

My grandmother loved the sea. She liked to live close to it. She would stride along the shore, taking in deep breaths of salty air, and say "Smell the ozone!" As a child I thought that ozone smelt like seaweed.

My mother loves the sea. She lives near it. She deviates to look at it, gazing through the windscreen of her car on a windy day. In fine weather she sits on a wooden seat and dreams of sailing.

I do not dream of sailing. I do not smell the ozone as a conscious act. I am the sea.

The light gleaming dimly like eels through the shallows on a summer's evening gleams through me. I am as thick as turkish delight. I lick the apple peel seaweed and the threaded brown polyps. I fizz around a discarded corn cob, and shift a shell. I hold dolphins and lift green inflatable dinghies with boys inside. My waves run on golden rails. I outstay the orange sun, and the sand which is violet and grey. I fluoresce momentarily. Electric blue, then black.

Hortulana negans

Pliny, I said, later on.

What?

I don't like that motto. It's too ambiguous.

Nihil summatim?

Yes, it could be taken to mean that I can be summed up by a great big nothing.

It doesn't say anything about the size of it.

I know, but you know what I mean. I want something a bit more personal.

How about The negative gardener? Hortulana negans. That's personal.

It's too negative. Something about me. I love the sea. I am made entirely of grapes. I am bold when it comes to killing small spiders. What do you think?

I think I'll leave it up to you.

Motto

Pliny the Elder looks surprised. Whose is this new Latin Dictionary and Grammar? he wonders aloud.

It's mine, I say.

What do you need that for? he asks. You can find out anything you need to know from me.

You are not always here, I reply. For example you went away at Christmas. Which was when I was asked to come up with the Latin for a motto.

What was the motto? asks Pliny.

'I stand aside', I reply. Or in Latin, 'Separatim maneo'.

Very nice, says Pliny, approvingly. Very nice indeed. But not your motto, obviously.

No, not my motto. I would like a motto, if only I could think of one.

I thought your motto was 'No day without a line', says Pliny.

That's more of a reminder, I say. No, I want something that sums me up, in Latin.

First, says Pliny, you must find something that sums you up in English.

I know, I say, but nothing does.

How about 'Nothing sums her up'?

What would that be in Latin?

'Nihil summatim', perhaps.

That seems a little terse. And where am I, in that?

I left you out, for brevity.

Potatoes and Chocolate

How was your Christmas? asked Pliny the Elder.

Alright. But where were you? said I, in reply.

I took myself off, said Pliny. I do not hold with Christmas. I generally find people eat too much food at Christmas, chocolates and potatoes in particular.

Oh Pliny, I said, as to chocolates you are quite right, but there were precious few potatoes eaten at our house and my mother's on Christmas Day this year.

You surprise me, said Pliny. How did this come about? Were you not planning to cook a great turkey for Christmas Lunch?

I was, and I did cook a great turkey, and yet there were no potatoes roasted or baked with the turkey, because my daughter and I served up two salads instead, and the salads were Watermelon, Feta and Black Olive, and New Orleans Coleslaw. No potatoes.

Perhaps I should have stayed at home after all, said Pliny. That would have suited my No Carbs diet very well. However I recall seeing your Christmas Day To Do list and it clearly said 'Make Potato Salad in the afternoon'.

Pliny! Since when are you on a No Carbs diet?

Since next week said Pliny. It's my New Years Resolution. But what about that Potato Salad?

Oh, Pliny, I did make one. It was for the Christmas Dinner, at my mother's. But I forgot to take it with me. Everybody laughed.

Pliny laughed. Suddenly he stopped laughing.

Does this mean...? he asked.

Yes, it's still here in the fridge and we're having it for lunch today, and probably tomorrow. And Pliny.....?

Yes?

Help yourself to the chocolates.

The Minus Oneth Day of Christmas

Me, musing: Should I call this the Minus Oneth Day of Christmas or the Minus First Day of Christmas? Minus First doesn't sound right. Minus Oneth doesn't look right.

Me, replying to myself: Why don't you call it what it is? The Day Before Christmas?

Me, musing further: The Day Before Christmas? That doesn't fit to the sequence of Minus Eighth, Minus Seventh etc. And shouldn't it be Christmas Eve?

Me, replying to myself: That wouldn't fit the sequence either.

Me, musing: True.

( a long pause, represented by dots ) ....................

Me again, musing: I'll go with Oneth. After all, there's a Zeroth Law of Thermodynamics.

Me: So there is. And Christmas Day is the Zeroth Day of Christmas.

Me, disagreeing with myself: I think you'll find that it's the First Day of Christmas.

Me, definitively: It will be the Zeroth Day Of Christmas, for the sake of my own Equilibrium.

The Minus Second Day of Christmas.

Now here's a coincidence for you, said Pliny the Elder, who seemed in a talkative mood.

Go on, I said warily.

Imagine, he said, that you are walking to Norwood to post some letters and do some Christmas shopping. You're just turning in to Webbe Street between the carpark and the Plaza. All at once you hear the strains of Christmas music drifting across from the Parade. There are buildings in the way so you hear only one choral phrase, and that phrase is ' Fall on your knees '.

Oh, I know that one! I said. Oh heeear the angel voiiices, oh niiight divine, ohhhh night, oh night deeevine!

Really, said Pliny. Is that how it goes? Well, I didn't hear any of that, it was cut off. But I was thinking, when I heard it, would it not be an amusing coincidence if one were to fall upon one's knees?

What do you mean, Pliny? In adoration?

Adoration? No. I mean if one were to accidentally trip just at that moment.

Well, I suppose it would if you did. But did you?

No, I merely hypothesised it.

I don't think there can be any such thing as a hypothetical coincidence, Pliny. That means at least one of the things didn't happen. So it can't be a proper coincidence. I do agree it would be funny though. As long as you didn't hurt yourself.

Funny indeed. In fact it is quite a funny song. What comes after 'Oh night deeevine'?

Oh-oh, niiight, when Christ was booorn, I crooned, pleased that I remembered it so well.

What night was that exactly? asked Pliny.

December the 25th of course, I replied.

Ah! said Pliny. The same night that Newton was born! Another coincidence!

Another hypothetical one, I muttered.

The Minus Third Day of Christmas.

I didn't think your Minus Fourth Day of Christmas blog was very Christmassy, said Pliny the Elder.

What about the girl with the red shiny hair ? I asked. Wasn't she Christmassy?

Was she supposed to be ? asked Pliny.

That's why I put her in, I replied firmly.

So you made her up? frowned Pliny.

No Pliny, I never make anything up.

Well, what is your Christmas theme going to be today?

You probably won't believe me, but I was in North Adelaide this afternoon, waiting for my daughter, when I saw a second girl with shiny red hair crossing Ward Street. She was dressed in black. She was too far away for me to see if it was the same girl we saw at the beach.

No, said Pliny. That will not do.

What do you mean?

It is virtually the same theme.

No it isn't. The first time it was a girl with red shiny hair. The second time it was a coincidence.

But a coincidence is not in itself Christmassy.

It is, if the thing that happened twice was Christmassy.

A sophist's argument, sniffed Pliny.

The Minus Fourth Day of Christmas.

We're at Port Willunga, best beach in the world.

The Star of Greece Cafe is full of late lunchers, looking out over the bay.

It's warm and sunny with a sea breeze. The sea is like spring water, and a cold spring roll, transparent, with dolphins inside. A giant jelly sits zen-like on the shore.

We're walking on shells beside million year old cliffs from which the colours have been leached.

And before us walks a girl with shiny crimson hair, a green tee-shirt, shorts and a silver belt.

The Minus Fifth Day of Christmas

I was on Hutt Street last week, said Pliny the Elder, waiting to cross over at the lights, when I happened to look at a tree I was standing next to. It had a length of red plastic net fixed round the trunk, the sort they use for oranges.

Really, I said, surprised. Was it an orange tree?

No, said Pliny. It was a plane tree. On further inspection I noticed that I was in fact looking at the back end of a large red Christmas bow.

What do you mean, the back end?

I mean that the bow was on the other side of the tree, visible only to the oncoming traffic.

How peculiar. Oncoming traffic does not need to be distracted by a Christmas bow.

Indeed. It was then I became aware that every tree on Hutt Street sported a similar bow. And that the ones on the opposite side were also angled to face the oncoming traffic.

Are you sure, Pliny? They were angled towards the road? And therefore away from the gaze of pedestrians, such as yourself?

Yes, said Pliny. I'm glad to see you agree with me that it is quite outrageous.

The Minus Sixth Day of Christmas.

Am I feeling Christmassy yet? No. Grumble, grumble, moan....

Waah!

Ooh, who said that?

Me, little Baby Jesus.

Gosh! Where are you?

I'm in a crib on George Street, wearing a red Christmas hat.

A red Christmas hat! That doesn't seem very appropriate.

I like it. I feel Christmassy. Have you got a hat?

Yes, I do have a Christmas hat. I wonder where it is......oh, here it is, in the bag of Christmas tree decorations.

Why don't you put it on?

It's too early. Hey, you're a very articulate little baby Jesus. Answer me this. Why isn't there one of you in the gazebo at Townsend House?

Hah! They wouldn't give me a hat.

The Minus Seventh Day of Christmas.

Christmas tree.

Today I put up a Christmas tree. The one I've kept in an orange bag in the garage, ever since creatures ate the box it came in. It was a long thin box and really hard to get the tree out of and back into. Now you know it isn't a real tree. For many years we used to buy a real tree but it used to make some of us sneeze.

The real tree was delivered by some charity, I don't remember which. They delivered it 7 days before Christmas, which the children always thought was way too late. It must have been, because when I put our tree up this morning I thought it was way too late as well. My daughter is coming tomorrow and we're going to decorate it together, that's why I've waited until today.

I didn't want to wait until tomorrow in case there were creatures in the bag. At first I thought there weren't but then, when I put my head into the bag, I could see that there were. Horrendously large browny-yellow multi-segmented wriggling larvae. I was glad my daughter wasn't going to see them. I tipped them out in the garden. She might see them there but she won't know where they've been.

I still don't feel Christmassy. That's probably because the tree is bare.

The Minus Eighth Day of Christmas

On the minus eighth day of Christmas, which is today, I don't feel very Christmassy, but I know how to rectify that. From now until Christmas I'll write about Christmassy things. And so:

Nativity.

At Townsend Park, where my mum lives, the men have made lifesize painted plywood Christmas decorations and placed them at various points throughout the grounds. There are Disneyesque mice in red Christmas hats saluting near the flower bed, thin angels blowing golden horns at the end of the drive, reindeer with mouselike features prancing on the oval, and, the piece de resistance, a nativity scene in the gazebo, complete with everybody but the infant Jesus.

This lack of a baby Jesus is quite concerning. Mary, Joseph, the shepherds and the wise men staring into an empty cradle.

Has he been stolen?
Or has Easter come early?

A Rose Poem Begun As Prose

Here's something. I had a white rose in a small brown vase on the kitchen windowsill, for months. It didn't stay white of course. It dried out and turned the colour of tearstained paper. The lavender flowers surrounding it were astonished, and refused to die. One day three rose petals dropped into the sink. I picked them up and placed them in my paper boats. They looked like little extra sails, optimistic, about to billow in the wind.

I was outside this morning looking at the roses. They were crisping up alarmingly in the heat. The red ones looked as though they had been subjected to an electric shock. The shock had curled the edges of their deep red petals, created creamy wedges in the frills, ripped holes in their underskirts,

and exposed their lurid yellow skin.
I had to bring them in.

And so the tearstained paper rose met its end.

It decomposed in a flutter of papery notes.
Five petals I put carefully into paper boats.

My rose, at rest, so fragile, in the sink.
The red electric fright roses replaced it.
Ah!

An earwig thrusts its tail at me from deep inside.

Pineapple: The Wow Factor

By now, the world knows that we are going to photograph every pineapple that we buy, before we eat it. We have created an album on Facebook for this purpose, and have already put one photo up.

There are as many reasons to photograph a pineapple as there are knobs on a pineapple, but I intend to list only a few.

Firstly, as it is extremely difficult to tell whether a pineapple is any good simply by looking at it, sniffing it, or pulling out one of the spiky leaves at the top, it will be very useful to have a record of what the best ones looked like, for future reference.

Secondly, it will provide us with a means of comparing the various sizes of the pineapples that we buy, which we know are always different, even when the price is exactly the same.

Thirdly, others may wish to comment on the magnificence of our pineapple. I note that someone has already commented on our first one, with the following comment : wow.

While this is most encouraging I cannot help being troubled by the lack of an exclamation mark at the end of the comment. It suggests a certain degree of underwhelmedness on the part of the commenter.

However, perhaps at this early stage of the project it is understandable.

Demise of Number 14

We've lived on this street for ten years now, approximately. No one's lived at number 14 for most of those.

We'd walk past in the evenings and see the setting sun reflected in the windows, which made it look like someone was inside.

But the broken blinds and flaking stucco walls, the cracking concrete and the unattended weeds, the ever growing collection of Messenger newspapers lying in the driveway, spoke of emptiness.

I've stared into those windows from the footpath, imagining some lonely person sitting in a darkened room inside, staring out, while their Messenger newspapers slowly turn to mush.

And their roses doggedly bloom, pink and red.

Now the house at number 14 has been pulled down. All that remains is a pile of rubble, and that too will soon be gone.

But for just a few days last week, when the house was still standing but the roof was gone, daylight poured in, illuminating the delicate lilac pink and lavender painted interior walls.

How to Surf

Pliny and Nostradamus are walking on the beach, between Semaphore South and Largs, wearing jackets they don't need, and hats.

The sea is jiggling and glinting like glutinous soup. Twenty two yachts with shadowy sails race slowly. A dinghy with an outboard motor and a canopy floats while the occupants fish.

The sand is sharp with fingernail shells and the dead seagrass waits in sculpted mounds.

The shallows are pink and green, and clear, revealing black seaweed archipelagoes, over which two small boys are drifting on foam bodyboards.

Excuse me! calls the littlest one.

Yes? say Pliny and Nostradamus.

Could you please show us how to surf?

You need to wait for a wave, says Pliny, helpfully. There are some out there, they'll soon be coming in.

Why? asks the little one.

It's what they do, says Pliny.

You'd do better up the beach a bit, says Nostradamus. The waves are bigger there.

But Pliny says, No no. Don't send them. (For their mum might not be pleased.)

Nemo Ipsum Solveat

No one will be able to solve it, I said to Pliny the Elder.

It doesn't matter, he replied. In fact I hope they can't. That will teach those editors to tell me what to write. They'll see I can do perfectly well without pretending to be a detective.

That's fine, I said, but ..... it is solvable, isn't it?

Of course it is, said Pliny, particularly by someone like you.

Like me? I repeated.

A fellow writer, he said, generously.

Well, let me have a go, I said. I know that what was written on the back of the piece of paper was what I saw you writing earlier when I sneaked a look over your shoulder.

Yes, correct, said Pliny. And you know that then I had to rejig it a bit because of that ridiculous request.

Mmm. Am I right that both sides of the paper were written in your handwritng?

Yes.

Aha! So you wrote down a list of facts relating to your original story. and then you changed the story. That's why they don't make sense to Gaius!

Yes, that's it! said Pliny.

But why are they inside the book that Gaius is reading? I asked, still struggling to understand. And why is the story he reads not the same as the one he remembers by Kafka?

Think! said Pliny. Who is Gaius?

You, I said. Oh I get it. This is all just about the process of writing, is it? Only you reversed it. Or turned it inside out. And allowed yourself to escape from your frame. Or something like that.

Right. Something like that, said Pliny.

Per Ipsum Solveat

Your story is very Kafkaesque, I said to Pliny. It seems to be saying something about the human condition that I can't quite put my finger on, and then there's the astonishing ending.

Yes, said Pliny, I know it's a good story, but now listen to how I turn it into a mystery:

Gaius finished reading, and closed the book. He scratched his head. Most extraordinary! he muttered, looking at the cover once again. Yes, it was a book of Kafka's short stories, but the one he had just read was not like The Metamorphosis that he remembered. Perhaps partially, he conceded.

Just then a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor from between the pages of the book. He picked it up. It appeared to be a hand-written list, headed "Facts". He began to read:

1. A beetle has been squashed ( by a bicycle).

2. The beetle is of an undetermined size, as is the bicycle.

3. Therefore this is only a 'report' of a beetle being squashed by a bicycle,

4. The beetle has elsewhere been referred to as 'a giant beetle'.

5. Someone called 'K' is involved in the investigations.

6. He speaks German.

7. 'K' knew of the beetle both before and after the reported squashing.

8. 'K' has concluded something.

He speaks German? wondered Gaius. No, he doesn't. Gaius turned the piece of paper over. On the reverse side he read:

..... a giant beetle or cockroach, or as K originally referred to it, Ungeziefer. The actual measurements of the creature were not given, therefore it was not possible to ascertain whether it was likely to have been squashed when ridden over by an ordinary sized bicycle, or whether it had to be something larger. However, K concluded......

Now that rings a bell, said Gaius to himself. That definitely does ring a bell. But I can't quite put my finger on it. And I can't think straight without my toga. Oh well. Per ipsum solveat.

That's it, said Pliny.

What's per ipsum solveat?

You must solve it for yourself.

Oh, very good.

Yes, said Pliny. That will teach them.

Scene of the Crime

Are you ready for more of my story? asked Pliny the Elder.

You bet I am, I said. I'm listening.

Pliny cleared his throat and began to read:

K arrived at the office in a state of panic. Not only had he partially turned into a giant beetle, but he had failed to remain at the scene of an accident for which he had been ( only partially, he thought) responsible. He parked his bicycle and bolted up the stairs.

No one in the office bothered to greet him. They all had their heads down over various piles of papers. K slid into his seat, and looked at the single paper on his own desk. Urgent! it read. Accident at City Junction. Hit and run. Giant creature squashed. Police uncertain as to owner of boot-clad feet also found at the scene. Attend at once, file report.

K was in a quandary. He must return to the scene of the crime! But there were sure to be witnesses who would recognise him there. He wondered if Otto might be prevailed upon to go. He stood up and walked over to Otto. Otto! he said, trying not to sound too much like a beetle. Otto looked up. Sorry, far too busy, he said, and continued to shuffle his papers. Well, thought K, if he didn't notice....

K went back to the scene of the crime, on foot, and without his identifying hat. People were standing around the squashed beetle and the brown leather boots, but no one paid K much attention. What happened here? he asked a woman with a shopping basket. Ugh! she said. Someone's run over a huge insect. Look at the mess! Did you see it happen? asked K. Partially, said the woman. Well, no, I was looking in the opposite direction , but I heard everything. What did it sound like? asked K. Like a birth, the woman replied.

Well, that's the story, said Pliny. What do you think?

I'm speechless. Is that really the end?

No, said Pliny, just the end of that story. Of course I still have to close off the frame.

Metamorphosis

Right! said Pliny the Elder. I've taken your advice, and I've added a frame.

That was quick! I exclaimed. Read it out.

Alright, said Pliny. Tell me what you think of this as a beginning:

Gaius Plinius Secundus was at a loose end. His toga was at the dry cleaners and he was confined to the house. He looked around for something with which to occupy his mind.

A loose end! That's not like you like you! I interrupted.

No, but the readers are not to know that. And besides, this is fiction.

Sorry, I said. I like how you got the toga in without having to wear it, I added.

Thank you, said Pliny. Now to continue:

Gaius looked idly along a row of old books in the bookcase, and picked up the one at the end. It was a book of short stories by Kafka. He leafed through until he came to The Metamorphosis, and began to read. This is strange, he said to himself. I thought I knew this story.

The story was about someone called K. One morning K woke up to discover he had partially turned into a giant beetle. ( Hmm, mused Gaius, he turned completely into a beetle in the story I remember). He got out of bed quite easily. That was because he still had human legs. Good, thought K, at least I will still be able to ride my bicycle. He ate some scraps out of the garbage pail, partially dressed himself and went downstairs to find his bike, so that he could ride to work. I hope they recognise me when I get there, he said to himself. I look very different from yesterday. And he ran back upstairs for his hat, by which he hoped to identify himself to his colleagues.

On the way to work, he found himself riding directly behind another beetle on a bicycle. This beetle, he was sorry to see, was almost all beetle, with long thin beetle legs, and was consequently having great trouble controlling his bike. Indeed this would have been all but impossible had he not possessed two human feet, clad in sturdy brown leather boots.

The beetle in the boots wobbled up to an intersection and stopped at the lights. Unfortunately K, who was thinking ahead to the office and wondering how he was going to access his files, rode straight into the stationary beetle, knocking him off his bicycle, upending him, and riding straight over his soft underbelly, squashing his guts out all over the road. In a panic, K rode away, never once looking behind him.

Pliny paused to take a breath. Well, he said. What do you think of it so far?

Fantastic! I said. Better than Kafka! The frame is working a treat. And the story's brilliant, so far. I can't wait to hear the rest.

And you will, said Pliny the Elder, just as soon as I've finished it off.

Framed

And was there a shark? asked Pliny the Elder, or was it a false alarm?

Oh, you've been reading my blog, I said, pleased. Tell me, what did you think of my style?

Nothing but lists, said Pliny dismissively. Lists are no substitute for good writing.

But......oh, never mind. And no, there wasn't a shark. At least no one on shore could see one. Everyone was staring out to sea, the helicopter was hovering, and turning in circles, a couple of people came out of the water, the surfboarders paddled on regardless, a passerby asked me if there was a shark and I said that I didn't know. A little while later the helicopter flew off towards the south, and everyone carried on as before.

Perhaps the helicopter spotter was deceived by the shark blue sea, said Pliny, with a smile. Assuming that prescient colour was not the result of hindsight.

You're far too sharp for me Pliny, I said. By the way, how are you getting on with your Kafka story? Is it finished?

Don't ask, said Pliny, looking distressed. It was finished, but then I received a call from the editors asking for a followup to my last story.

That was good wasn't it? You had one all ready to go.

Yes, said Pliny, but they want it to be another detective story, and the protagonist has to be me.

What's wrong with that?

Not just me. Me in a toga!

Yes, but what's wrong with that?

I think you know. My story is about Kafka, a bicycle and a beetle.

Pliny, I said, in literature a tale can be altered, simply by adding a frame.

The Shark Perspectives

Oh what a multiplicity of views to be had yesterday between Hove and Seacliff by anyone walking due south along the breezy esplanade.

The first, a shock! The sand is low and wide. There's you, the rocks, a few low daisy plants, and three metres down, the sand, yellow and empty all the way to the jetty except for a man in a wide-brimmed hat, fishing at the edge of the sea. The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, shark blue.

A wooden seat on a concrete slab, the rocks, a sudden drop, the sandhills, rusty succulents and clumps of reeds, tipped with brown fuzzy pompoms, waving, the wide flat sand, the lifesavers' red and yellow tent and flags, the sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, and shark blue.

The bridge over the outlet, a sign, We Care for Water, a steep drop, between black rocks a pool, surprisingly clear.

A narrow pavement, scrubby trees, blocking out the view. A man and a woman, middle aged, walking a bulldog, that stops for a pee. A shuffling of walkers, and bikes.

Wire and shadecloth fence, ragged, low sandhills , camel humps of sand dumped by the council, sprouting seaweed hairs.

The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow and shark blue, six seagulls, a score of white-sailed yachts, surfboarders paddling north, a motor boat, and on the horizon, near the desal plant, a huge black Trojan Horse.

Children, running, wrapped in towels, a girl with a dozen balloons.

A helicopter, whirring overhead, stops ominously. Shark.

Strikes of the Negative Gardener

The Negative Gardener has just been outside, eating her lunch.

While eating she faced, due to the orientation of the seating, the lavender bush she had recently got at with the snippers, because she thought it was too big.

Of course, she had seen it immediately after completing her depredations, but that did not count, for she was temporarily on a lavender high.

Just now though, she has looked at it critically. It looks, she realised, like a troll. The stubby wizened legs exposed, the stiff green and purple hair defying gravity, and attracting a bee.

At least the bee likes it, she thought, as she turned to go inside. This involved a change of orientation, directing her attention to the Happy Plant, which was no longer living up to its name. It was dead in its pot under the pittosporum tree.

The Happy Plant had been happy for four years, in the kitchen. Her daughter had left it behind. The Negative Gardener had recently decided that it ought to go outside, when someone had given her a cyclamen in a pot, as a well-intentioned gift.

Poor Happy Plant! The Negative Gardener quite likes to watch plants die, but only if it can't be helped.

And the cyclamen is on its way out as well.

One Kafka Too Many

It looks like there's a race to be the next writer published in Velosophy.

And catastrophically, the main contenders are both Kafka.

To clarify, one is the real Kafka; the other Kafka is Pliny the Elder. Who will be the first to get his story to the office of the editors?

Let's look over the shoulders of the two would-be Kafkas, and see how they're getting on.

Here is the real Kafka hunched over his exercise book writing feverishly. He is continually being interrupted by members of his family walking back and forth between the bedroom and the dining room, for his bedroom is just a passage, with a bed in it. So what is he writing?

........K carried the tiny bicycle under his arm all the way to the Post Office, one pedal jammed uncomfortably against his ribs. He entered, to be confronted by a scowling woman behind the counter. It's forbidden to bring a bicycle into the Post Office, she said, waving a sheet..........

Mmm. Hard to tell where he's up to, but it seems to be somewhere in the middle. Let's go and spy on Pliny the Elder.

Here is Pliny the Elder hunched over his Notebook, typing away like the clappers, stopping occasionally to refer to a library book, " Franz Kafka: A Biographical Essay". It's not the type of library book, he usually reads. Perhaps it was borrowed from the library by somebody else. Let's see what he's writing.

.......a giant beetle, or cockroach or, as K originally referred to it, Ungeziefer. The actual measurements of the creature were not given, therefore it was not possible to ascertain whether it was likely to have been squashed when ridden over by an ordinary-sized bicycle, or whether it had to be something larger. However, K concluded........

Concluded! Pliny's going well! He could turn out to be the faster Kafka.

Kafka's Bicycle

The editors of Velosophy are celebrating yet another triumph.

Le Bon David: Another glass of champagne, my friend?

The VeloDrone: Don't mind if I do, David, don't mind if I do.

Le Bon David: Cheers! Drink up. You know I still can't get over how popular that story of Pliny the Elder's has been. Who would have thought a detective story would appeal to philosophers, eh?

The VeloDrone: It's all to do with who he is, don't you think? If anyone else had written it, it would have gone down like a lead balloon.

Le Bon David: True. But I don't think anyone else could have written it, do you?

The VeloDrone: No. There's just something rather delicious about him going round solving mysteries in his toga.

Le Bon David: I'm thinking of asking him to write a follow up story. Another Pliny the Elder detective mystery. It could become a cult thing.

The VeloDrone: Yes let's ask him. Meanwhile, have you got any ideas for next week?

Le Bon David: I'm still waiting on 'Galileo's Bicycle' from Professor Freud. But I had an interesting letter from that chap whatsisname.... Kafka, recently. He seems keen to send us something. Says he's never ridden a bicycle in his life. Legs are too long. And he has a nasty cough. But he's nearly finished a piece that has a bicycle in it, 'albeit small' , he says.

The VeloDrone: Albeit small? Did he mean the bicycle or the story?

Le Bon David: We shall have to wait and see.

Inaction

Inaction! I echoed, slightly annoyed. I was thinking more along the lines of letting things take their own course, while keeping an eye out for culpability due to inaction on my part.

It's the same thing, remarked Pliny, if you don't do anything.

It isn't, I said. It's my way of living an examined life. You live an examined life don't you?

I am too busy, said Pliny.

Oh yes, I said. Have you sent off your bicycle story yet?

I have, said Pliny. It will be published tomorrow. I hope it will be well received.

Bound to be, I said. It's got everything. Mystery, music, comedy, an approaching storm, two bicycles, religious controversy, even an apotheosis of sorts.

Thanks, said Pliny, looking pleased. I wonder if they'll ask me for a follow-up.

Do you have another bicycle story in you? I asked.

Oh yes indeed I do, said Pliny. I've been reading Kafka. I have an idea for a story which I shall call Kafka's Bicycle. A man wakes up one morning to discover he's turned into a giant beetle.

How is that any different from Kafka's story?

There will be a bicycle in it.

But surely a beetle couldn't ride a bicycle.

I must say you have very little imagination.

True. I like to just sit back and let things take their course.

Do that. And I shall commence work on my story.

Existence Deconstructed

I believe I understand, said Pliny the Elder, why you held back from offering help to your mother when she was planting her petunias.

You do? I said, surprised.

I do, said Pliny. You did not wish to spoil her pleasure in a small task she enjoys. You did not wish to interfere, or to diminish her dignity as a person.

That is partly true, Pliny, I agreed. The other reason is that I dislike petunias.

Oh! said Pliny, that is a great deal less admirable, Why do you dislike them?

I don't know. Probably because she likes them so much.

Well! said Pliny. Perhaps I should delve no further into this.

Perhaps you shouldn't, I agreed. But tell me, what did you think of my existential companion piece, on the petrol vouchers and gold bottle top?

I did not quite know what to make of it, said Pliny. It was as if you thought what happened was in some way representative of human existence. But any other person would have put down the unwanted petrol vouchers and the bottle top at once.

Where, for example? I challenged.

You were in the car, were you not? I know that car. There are many little nooks and crannies where one might temporarily deposit a small piece of rubbish. The drink holder, the glove box, the space under the radio, said Pliny.

Go on, I said.

That space behind the door handle, the back seat, the floor, continued Pliny, warming up.

You are correct Pliny, I said. Another person may have put the rubbish in any one of those places. And remembered, or not remembered, to take the rubbish inside when they got home. But there is a key to every person. And these two pieces on existence were the key to me.

Aha! said Pliny suddenly, after thinking for a moment. I have it! Inaction!