I, Gaius Plinius Secundus, having returned from a two-day sojourn on the far-off coast of Yorke Peninsula, have these tales to tell.
I and my two companions drove in a car out of the city precincts following a long straight road to the top of the Gulf known as St Vincent. On the way we saw many wonders. The Palms of Cavan, an oasis of giant palm trees. Rows of white salt heaps reflected upside down in a lake of blue. An untended Cactus Garden. A field of metal creatures, a man, a metal beetle and a mouse. Dilapidated glasshouses, empty but for dried-out sagging weeds. Vast tracts of sand and rusty saltbush.
At Port Wakefield we walked through a deserted town, where it was very hot and the trees afforded no satisfactory shade, and there were horseflies.
At Moonta we looked for food. We found a small shop that served Cornish pasties, on blue and white striped plates. Here we found evidence of the famed Copper Triangle, for the knives and forks were tipped with copper balls.
Next we left Moonta for Moonta Bay. I spied a sign on a fence which read 'General Contractor'. I would have liked to stop and speak with a military man, but my companions were anxious to continue to the coast.
We arrived at Moonta Bay. The tide was out as far as the eye could see. There were white sand banks and pools of pale blue sea water, red and yellow rocks, and a fine long curving jetty. While my companions walked out on the jetty, I examined the rocks on the shore for traces of copper, which I found, and when my companions returned, they assured me that the deep sea's hue was a mottled coppery green.
Thence to the Moonta Bay Cabin Park, where our cabin had been left unlocked for our arrival. Indeed, there was no one there to welcome us, other than a large brown hopping creature that my companions informed me was a kangaroo. I should have liked to get a closer look at this kangaroo, but my companions wishing to go for a walk along the beach, I was obliged to put on a hat and some white sun-deterring cream and join them.
It was most pleasant on the beach at Moonta Bay. The sun was warm and mild, and the breeze was gentle. The coppery cliffs reflected in the coppery sheeny flat pools of water in between the sand banks. A man with two dogs of differing sizes speared a blue and white umbrella into one of the sandbanks and sat under it with water lapping all around.
I pottered on the shore looking for copper traces, and marvelling at the floating seagrass that was straight and flat, yet cast shadows that were polypy and curved, and edged with light.
My companions meanwhile walked towards Port Hughes. I did not accompany them, but one of them later told me that she had sat down upon some grass under a pine tree there, and been attacked by biting midges, on hearing which I suppressed a smile.
Of many more wonders I have yet to tell , but fearing lest I induce tedium, I shall leave them for tomorrow.
Vale!
Gaius Plinius Secundus.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Moonta Bay
What's this? says Pliny the Elder, looking at his Facebook. You didn't tell me you were going to Moonta Bay.
I was going to tell you, I said.
When? he asked.
About now, I said. We're going to Moonta Bay for the weekend. We're staying in a cabin.
By we, you don't mean me, I suppose, said Pliny, looking sorrowful.
Oh Pliny, you do look sorrowful. Would you like to come?
I do not know. Where is this Moonta Bay?
It's north up St Vincents Gulf to Port Wakefield then across Yorke Peninsula to Kadina then down to Moonta on the Spencer Gulf, I said. At least I think so. I get my gulfs mixed up, I added, unhelpfully.
How far away is it? asked Pliny, who was looking just a little bit too interested.
Two to three hours drive, I said, through very boring countryside.
And what is there? asked Pliny, not seeming at all put off.
Not a lot, I said. The Copper Triangle. Old abandoned mines, a jetty, and a windy coast. Impenetrable scrub.
Well, said Pliny, if you both don't mind, I'll come!
I was going to tell you, I said.
When? he asked.
About now, I said. We're going to Moonta Bay for the weekend. We're staying in a cabin.
By we, you don't mean me, I suppose, said Pliny, looking sorrowful.
Oh Pliny, you do look sorrowful. Would you like to come?
I do not know. Where is this Moonta Bay?
It's north up St Vincents Gulf to Port Wakefield then across Yorke Peninsula to Kadina then down to Moonta on the Spencer Gulf, I said. At least I think so. I get my gulfs mixed up, I added, unhelpfully.
How far away is it? asked Pliny, who was looking just a little bit too interested.
Two to three hours drive, I said, through very boring countryside.
And what is there? asked Pliny, not seeming at all put off.
Not a lot, I said. The Copper Triangle. Old abandoned mines, a jetty, and a windy coast. Impenetrable scrub.
Well, said Pliny, if you both don't mind, I'll come!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Three Flies
Dear Blogger Person,
We are THREE FLIES. We have reason to believe we are the THREE FLIES referred to yesterday in your blog as SANDFLIES!!! We believe this because the THREE OF US happened to be walking towards the sea at GRANGE on Australia Day afternoon just to the immediate SOUTH of three half-eaten APPLES!! and we commented to one another at the time that SOMEONE (no doubt YOURSELF) appeared to be staring at us rather RUDELY!!
We wish to point out that we are not SANDFLIES. We are not nor have we ever been members of the family CERATOPOGONIDAE. We are perfectly ordinary FLIES who were harmlessly and inoffensively enjoying the beach on Australia Day along with MANY OTHERS, whom we note you have ALSO described in a somewhat SNOBBISH and ELITIST manner, such as the YOUNG DRINKING AND CRICKETING HUMANS, the FAT DOGS and the hapless SKUAS.
We demand that you write a RETRACTION, acknowledging that we are neither HORSEFLIES, which some people mistakenly call SANDFLIES, nor are we SANDFLEAS or BITING MIDGES, whose BITES leave large red itchy BUMPS that may turn into a RASH!!
WOULD that we WERE!!
Yours plainly, and without PREJUDICE,
THREE FLIES
We are THREE FLIES. We have reason to believe we are the THREE FLIES referred to yesterday in your blog as SANDFLIES!!! We believe this because the THREE OF US happened to be walking towards the sea at GRANGE on Australia Day afternoon just to the immediate SOUTH of three half-eaten APPLES!! and we commented to one another at the time that SOMEONE (no doubt YOURSELF) appeared to be staring at us rather RUDELY!!
We wish to point out that we are not SANDFLIES. We are not nor have we ever been members of the family CERATOPOGONIDAE. We are perfectly ordinary FLIES who were harmlessly and inoffensively enjoying the beach on Australia Day along with MANY OTHERS, whom we note you have ALSO described in a somewhat SNOBBISH and ELITIST manner, such as the YOUNG DRINKING AND CRICKETING HUMANS, the FAT DOGS and the hapless SKUAS.
We demand that you write a RETRACTION, acknowledging that we are neither HORSEFLIES, which some people mistakenly call SANDFLIES, nor are we SANDFLEAS or BITING MIDGES, whose BITES leave large red itchy BUMPS that may turn into a RASH!!
WOULD that we WERE!!
Yours plainly, and without PREJUDICE,
THREE FLIES
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Australia Day
It's Australia Day. In the afternoon we go to the beach. A blue sky and a warm strong flag-flapping hat-flipping wind at Grange.
As many people in the water as out. Forty people per hundred metres, I think.
They sit under vast no-sided tent pavillions, in canvas chairs, drinking, or shoulder-deep in water drinking pre-mixed drinks from cans. They play with small fat dogs.
Three sand flies march towards the waterline. Three seagulls peck at three half-eaten red-skinned apples on the sand. Four young women in swimsuits walk towards us, one with a pink parasol. Children carry fluoro boogie boards into the water. A blue and yellow fish kite flutters overhead.
Now there's a bare stretch of beach. The wind plaits the water like grass. A few wispy clouds curl up sportively.
A party spills on to the beach from a house. Young men play beach cricket with bottles and girls stand ankle-deep in the sea, drinking. The conversation: Where are you going? Europe. Just Europe? Yeah.
Two fat skuas sit on the sand looking sadly out to sea, a long way apart. The horizon is miles and miles away today.
Three passing girls stop momentarily. The one with blue lips says, leaning towards us, Happy Austraya Day!
As many people in the water as out. Forty people per hundred metres, I think.
They sit under vast no-sided tent pavillions, in canvas chairs, drinking, or shoulder-deep in water drinking pre-mixed drinks from cans. They play with small fat dogs.
Three sand flies march towards the waterline. Three seagulls peck at three half-eaten red-skinned apples on the sand. Four young women in swimsuits walk towards us, one with a pink parasol. Children carry fluoro boogie boards into the water. A blue and yellow fish kite flutters overhead.
Now there's a bare stretch of beach. The wind plaits the water like grass. A few wispy clouds curl up sportively.
A party spills on to the beach from a house. Young men play beach cricket with bottles and girls stand ankle-deep in the sea, drinking. The conversation: Where are you going? Europe. Just Europe? Yeah.
Two fat skuas sit on the sand looking sadly out to sea, a long way apart. The horizon is miles and miles away today.
Three passing girls stop momentarily. The one with blue lips says, leaning towards us, Happy Austraya Day!
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Pomegranate Crown
How is your, ahem, blemish this morning? asked Pliny the Elder.
Sore, I replied.
Let me see, said Pliny.
At least it's flat, I said.
You should not use medicine that is out of date, admonished Pliny. And you should have asked my advice. Which reminds me, I see you have been eating pomegranates. Why?
Because they are there, I said. My daughter bought five of them just before returning to London.
Well, rub some pomegranate juice on your finger, said Pliny. It is antiseptic and good for curing, ahem, blemishes.
Do stop saying, ahem, blemishes, Pliny. I'm not as sensitive as I pretend. Tell me more about the medicinal uses of pomegranates. I didn't know that they were good for anything.
Indeed they are. The juice of the Malum Punicum, or Jewel of Winter, as we called it, was well known as a cure for stomach ulcers, morning sickness, tape worm, diarrhoea, and pains of the ears and nostrils.
Nostrils?
Yes, So said Dioscorides in his Herbal of Dioscorides.
So the ancient Greeks knew about it?
Yes, everyone knew about it. The pomegranate was valued very highly. They say its shape inspired King Solomon's crown and all crowns ever since.
I don't believe it.
Look again.
Sore, I replied.
Let me see, said Pliny.
At least it's flat, I said.
You should not use medicine that is out of date, admonished Pliny. And you should have asked my advice. Which reminds me, I see you have been eating pomegranates. Why?
Because they are there, I said. My daughter bought five of them just before returning to London.
Well, rub some pomegranate juice on your finger, said Pliny. It is antiseptic and good for curing, ahem, blemishes.
Do stop saying, ahem, blemishes, Pliny. I'm not as sensitive as I pretend. Tell me more about the medicinal uses of pomegranates. I didn't know that they were good for anything.
Indeed they are. The juice of the Malum Punicum, or Jewel of Winter, as we called it, was well known as a cure for stomach ulcers, morning sickness, tape worm, diarrhoea, and pains of the ears and nostrils.
Nostrils?
Yes, So said Dioscorides in his Herbal of Dioscorides.
So the ancient Greeks knew about it?
Yes, everyone knew about it. The pomegranate was valued very highly. They say its shape inspired King Solomon's crown and all crowns ever since.
I don't believe it.
Look again.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Wart and the Pomegranate
What is this bitter taste? I first noticed it last night when I was drinking wine. It tasted bitter. Perhaps I'm ill. I don't feel ill.
In any case, I'm suffering from a condition. Being of a scientific bent I try to think what I've been doing that is different.
I'm putting salicylic acid on a finger wart. I'm eating pomegranate seeds.
These are both things that I don't usually do.
Either one could be the cause.
Do you mind if I stop using the word wart from here on? I find it a little embarrassing. I shall use the word blemish and you can just remember what it is.
Salicylic acid is good for killing blemishes. But my tube of salicylic acid is over twenty years old. That shows I do not often get a blemish, I hope you're noting that. The point is though, that this tube of stuff is very old.
Now suppose it gets more toxic as it ages? Suppose it gets into my bloodstream and works its way through every part including my taste buds? That is my hypothesis.
The hypothesis is soon to be tested, because today I attacked the blemish with a sewing needle, and now it's gone. Well, I hope it's gone. You never really know with a blemish. It might come back. The important thing is that I've stopped using the salicylic acid.
Are you a scientist? Do you see what I'm driving at?
The bitter taste will disappear quite soon, if it was caused by salicylic aid.
If not, I must stop eating pomegranates.
In any case, I'm suffering from a condition. Being of a scientific bent I try to think what I've been doing that is different.
I'm putting salicylic acid on a finger wart. I'm eating pomegranate seeds.
These are both things that I don't usually do.
Either one could be the cause.
Do you mind if I stop using the word wart from here on? I find it a little embarrassing. I shall use the word blemish and you can just remember what it is.
Salicylic acid is good for killing blemishes. But my tube of salicylic acid is over twenty years old. That shows I do not often get a blemish, I hope you're noting that. The point is though, that this tube of stuff is very old.
Now suppose it gets more toxic as it ages? Suppose it gets into my bloodstream and works its way through every part including my taste buds? That is my hypothesis.
The hypothesis is soon to be tested, because today I attacked the blemish with a sewing needle, and now it's gone. Well, I hope it's gone. You never really know with a blemish. It might come back. The important thing is that I've stopped using the salicylic acid.
Are you a scientist? Do you see what I'm driving at?
The bitter taste will disappear quite soon, if it was caused by salicylic aid.
If not, I must stop eating pomegranates.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Adelaide Street Circuit
Who wants to do the Adelaide Street Circuit anyway? sighed Jean Paul Sartre, swallowing the last piece of the snapper which The VeloDrone had cycled into Willunga earlier to buy. It's so pleasant and peaceful here.
Is it? snapped The VeloDrone. Tell me again, Jean Paul, why is it that an existentialist always carries string?
Ah! dear fellow, an existentialist is the practical type, pragmatic, always ready to change tack at the drop of a hat. Unlike your own philosophy, which is that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
The VeloDrone looked like thunder. What? he cried, you have misunderstood my book Candide! That is the foolish philosophy of Docter Pangloss! My own philosophy is that everyone should stay at home and mind his own business!
Advice you fail to take, evidently, interjected Freud, with a snapper-rich smirk.
Ingrates! shouted the VeloDrone. Who was it cycled all the way into Willunga this morning so you could have fish for breakfast?
Yes, calm down, gentlemen, please, said Le Bon David. We all have reason to be grateful to The VeloDrone. And perhaps we would have all been better off to have remained at home. But I for one am pleased to have come to the Tour Down Under. In spite of everything, I feel I have learned a lot. For example, about the limited usefulness of string.
I can think of a good use for it, muttered The VeloDrone. But, of course, we ought to count our blessings. In Willunga this morning I discovered a most excellent cheese shop called The Blessed Cheese.
Oh I don't suppose you brought any back with you? asked Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Because has anybody thought what we are going to do for lunch?
Is it? snapped The VeloDrone. Tell me again, Jean Paul, why is it that an existentialist always carries string?
Ah! dear fellow, an existentialist is the practical type, pragmatic, always ready to change tack at the drop of a hat. Unlike your own philosophy, which is that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
The VeloDrone looked like thunder. What? he cried, you have misunderstood my book Candide! That is the foolish philosophy of Docter Pangloss! My own philosophy is that everyone should stay at home and mind his own business!
Advice you fail to take, evidently, interjected Freud, with a snapper-rich smirk.
Ingrates! shouted the VeloDrone. Who was it cycled all the way into Willunga this morning so you could have fish for breakfast?
Yes, calm down, gentlemen, please, said Le Bon David. We all have reason to be grateful to The VeloDrone. And perhaps we would have all been better off to have remained at home. But I for one am pleased to have come to the Tour Down Under. In spite of everything, I feel I have learned a lot. For example, about the limited usefulness of string.
I can think of a good use for it, muttered The VeloDrone. But, of course, we ought to count our blessings. In Willunga this morning I discovered a most excellent cheese shop called The Blessed Cheese.
Oh I don't suppose you brought any back with you? asked Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Because has anybody thought what we are going to do for lunch?
Friday, January 22, 2010
Snapper Point to Willunga
The VeloDrone peers out over the cliff at Snapper Point.
What about breakfast? he says. There aren't any shops.
Le Bon David pops his head out from the campervan.
What's that you say? No shops? Then we must go fishing.
The VeloDrone: Fishing? Have you got any lines?
Le Bon David: What are lines?
Three bicycles roll slowly down the Aldinga Esplanade, under three disconsolate Existentialists.
Hello! they shout. Anybody at home?
Le Bon David: Oh no! It's Team Existentialist. Hide!
The VeloDrone: Why should we? We haven't done anything wrong.
Professor Freud: ( knocking on the campervan) Attention! Have you people any food?
Jean Paul Sartre: Yes, have you any food?
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: There are no shops in this god-forsaken stretch! We're starving!
The VeloDrone's head appears round the door. Oh it's you! Come in. No we haven't any food. Do you happen to have any string?
Jean Paul Sartre: An existentialist always has string. What do you want it for?
Le Bon David: ( sheepishly) Hello gentlemen. We were thinking of going fishing. This is Snapper Point. Therefore, there must be snapper.
The VeloDrone: You hope.
Le Bon David: Indeed, I hope. And will you gentlemen be riding in the Tour Down Under later on this morning?
Jean-Jaques Rousseau: No. We are disqualified, for throwing stones.
Le Bon David: Dear, dear! I trust you are philosophical about it?
Jean-Jaques Rousseau: Professor Freud is the only one of us who is.
Professor Freud: ( serenely ) And yet I am the only one of us who is not a philosopher.
What about breakfast? he says. There aren't any shops.
Le Bon David pops his head out from the campervan.
What's that you say? No shops? Then we must go fishing.
The VeloDrone: Fishing? Have you got any lines?
Le Bon David: What are lines?
Three bicycles roll slowly down the Aldinga Esplanade, under three disconsolate Existentialists.
Hello! they shout. Anybody at home?
Le Bon David: Oh no! It's Team Existentialist. Hide!
The VeloDrone: Why should we? We haven't done anything wrong.
Professor Freud: ( knocking on the campervan) Attention! Have you people any food?
Jean Paul Sartre: Yes, have you any food?
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: There are no shops in this god-forsaken stretch! We're starving!
The VeloDrone's head appears round the door. Oh it's you! Come in. No we haven't any food. Do you happen to have any string?
Jean Paul Sartre: An existentialist always has string. What do you want it for?
Le Bon David: ( sheepishly) Hello gentlemen. We were thinking of going fishing. This is Snapper Point. Therefore, there must be snapper.
The VeloDrone: You hope.
Le Bon David: Indeed, I hope. And will you gentlemen be riding in the Tour Down Under later on this morning?
Jean-Jaques Rousseau: No. We are disqualified, for throwing stones.
Le Bon David: Dear, dear! I trust you are philosophical about it?
Jean-Jaques Rousseau: Professor Freud is the only one of us who is.
Professor Freud: ( serenely ) And yet I am the only one of us who is not a philosopher.
Norwood to Goolwa
Le Bon David and The VeloDrone are watching the final moments of Stage 4 of the Tour Down Under in the back of their campervan, and eating Goolwa fish and chips from a paper bag.
The VeloDrone: Merde! The German wins again! I don't believe it! He complained of muscle cramps yesterday.
Le Bon David: Lucky you're not a betting man.
The VeloDrone: Normally, that would be true.
Le Bon David: Oh dear.
The VeloDrone: ( glumly) It doesn't matter.
Le Bon David: No. I mean, Oh dear, look what's happening now!
They turn their attention to the tiny television set, where Phil Liggett is interviewing Team Existentialist about their possible disqualification.
Phil Liggett: So, Professor Freud, what happened back there?
Professor Freud: A complete debacle! Stones everywhere!
Phil Liggett: You claim that people in the crowd were throwing stones?
Professor Freud: No no, we were throwing the stones. But Rousseau was throwing his deliberately backwards, Sartre was throwing his stones at the trees, and I was throwing stones at them to try and make them stop.
Rousseau: What's this! You claim I did something wrong?
Professor Freud: Yes, you did, and so did Jean Paul.
Jean Paul Sartre: An existentialist does what he feels is contingent upon him to do.
Rousseau: As for me, I never claimed to be an existentialist. I am a Romantic. I do what I feel I must do. And as I do not wish to be hit on the head with a stone, I throw it behind me, in case Galileo is right.
Freud: Well, you got hit in the back by my stone! And that served you right.
Jean Paul Sartre: So did I. And all I did was throw stones at a tree!
Phil Liggett: Well, well, calm down gentlemen. It remains to be seen whether your team will be disqualified, although it won't make any difference to the overall results. But you'll be pleased to know that Professor Freud has been conditionally awarded today's jersey for the Most Aggressive Rider.
The VeloDrone: Merde! The German wins again! I don't believe it! He complained of muscle cramps yesterday.
Le Bon David: Lucky you're not a betting man.
The VeloDrone: Normally, that would be true.
Le Bon David: Oh dear.
The VeloDrone: ( glumly) It doesn't matter.
Le Bon David: No. I mean, Oh dear, look what's happening now!
They turn their attention to the tiny television set, where Phil Liggett is interviewing Team Existentialist about their possible disqualification.
Phil Liggett: So, Professor Freud, what happened back there?
Professor Freud: A complete debacle! Stones everywhere!
Phil Liggett: You claim that people in the crowd were throwing stones?
Professor Freud: No no, we were throwing the stones. But Rousseau was throwing his deliberately backwards, Sartre was throwing his stones at the trees, and I was throwing stones at them to try and make them stop.
Rousseau: What's this! You claim I did something wrong?
Professor Freud: Yes, you did, and so did Jean Paul.
Jean Paul Sartre: An existentialist does what he feels is contingent upon him to do.
Rousseau: As for me, I never claimed to be an existentialist. I am a Romantic. I do what I feel I must do. And as I do not wish to be hit on the head with a stone, I throw it behind me, in case Galileo is right.
Freud: Well, you got hit in the back by my stone! And that served you right.
Jean Paul Sartre: So did I. And all I did was throw stones at a tree!
Phil Liggett: Well, well, calm down gentlemen. It remains to be seen whether your team will be disqualified, although it won't make any difference to the overall results. But you'll be pleased to know that Professor Freud has been conditionally awarded today's jersey for the Most Aggressive Rider.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Unley to Stirling
Professor Freud is chatting with Team Existentialist, to whom he has just been introduced.
Professor Freud; It is like this gentlemen. I need some riders to help me with a simple experiment.
Jean Paul Sartre: And it is like this Professor Freud. We are in need of some money, and an additional rider.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: I see that you yourself are a rider, Professor Freud. May I ask which team you ride for?
Professor Freud: Alas. No team at the present.
Jean Paul Sartre: Then my dear Professor, if you are willing to join our team, and put up a reasonable sum of money, we, as practical existentialists, shall be happy to assist you with your experiment. May I ask what it is?
Professor Freud: I should like you to take one of these stones, and when you are riding at a constant speed, throw it up in the air.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: To what end, Professor Freud?
Professor Freud: To this end. I wish to confirm the truth of Galileo's Laws of Constant Velocity and Projectile Motion. I wish to do this for an article I am writing for the magazine Velosophy, with whose editors we are mutually acquainted.
Jean Paul Sartre: Now wait a minute, Professor Freud. What is it that you expect to happen when the stones come down?
Professor Freud: Would you care to hazard a guess?
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: They'll drop behind us of course.
Jean-Paul Sartre: No, no, they won't. I'll wager that they fall directly on our heads.
Professor Freud: How very fascinating, gentlemen, that you disagree. The answer is not obvious at all. But Galileo predicts the stones will fall upon your heads.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: Fascinating it may be, but I should not care to risk stones falling on my head. However, this will not happen. The stones will fall behind us. How fortunate for the others that we are always at the back of the peloton.
Professor Freud; It is like this gentlemen. I need some riders to help me with a simple experiment.
Jean Paul Sartre: And it is like this Professor Freud. We are in need of some money, and an additional rider.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: I see that you yourself are a rider, Professor Freud. May I ask which team you ride for?
Professor Freud: Alas. No team at the present.
Jean Paul Sartre: Then my dear Professor, if you are willing to join our team, and put up a reasonable sum of money, we, as practical existentialists, shall be happy to assist you with your experiment. May I ask what it is?
Professor Freud: I should like you to take one of these stones, and when you are riding at a constant speed, throw it up in the air.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: To what end, Professor Freud?
Professor Freud: To this end. I wish to confirm the truth of Galileo's Laws of Constant Velocity and Projectile Motion. I wish to do this for an article I am writing for the magazine Velosophy, with whose editors we are mutually acquainted.
Jean Paul Sartre: Now wait a minute, Professor Freud. What is it that you expect to happen when the stones come down?
Professor Freud: Would you care to hazard a guess?
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: They'll drop behind us of course.
Jean-Paul Sartre: No, no, they won't. I'll wager that they fall directly on our heads.
Professor Freud: How very fascinating, gentlemen, that you disagree. The answer is not obvious at all. But Galileo predicts the stones will fall upon your heads.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: Fascinating it may be, but I should not care to risk stones falling on my head. However, this will not happen. The stones will fall behind us. How fortunate for the others that we are always at the back of the peloton.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Gawler to Hahndorf
Professor Freud is brandishing a stone in front of Lance Armstrong.
All you have to do, mein Freund, is throw it in the air when you are passing the spot where I shall be standing.
Sorry, mein crazy Freund, says Lance Armstrong. I'm an amiable guy, but I won't do it. I wouldn't want to hurt anyone.
Fine, says Freud, then I shall ask Cadel Evans. Perhaps he is less amiable than you.
The VeloDrone and Le Bon David have been listening. They decide it's time to intervene.
The VeloDrone: Well, hello, Professor Freud! What a surprise to see you here.
Professor Freud: Gotterdammerung! You are the last person I wish to see at the Tour Down Under!
The VeloDrone: Why so?
Professor Freud: Because I am here trying to double check the physics for the story I am writing for your magazine. I feel embarrassed.
The VeloDrone: No need to feel embarrassed. Perhaps David and I can help.
Le Bon David: Yes, my friend, we should be honoured.
Professor Freud: If you are here as members of Team Philosophe, then certainly you can be of some assistance.
The VeloDrone: No, unfortunately we are not. We forgot to get our entries in on time.
Professor Freud: Then I fail to see how you can help. I need the cooperation of some riders.
Le Bon David: Aha my friend! But we know something you don't know. Team Existentialist is here, and desperate for a sponsorship. I'm sure that whatever it is you wish them to do, they will do for a middling fee. And we will be only too happy to introduce you.
All you have to do, mein Freund, is throw it in the air when you are passing the spot where I shall be standing.
Sorry, mein crazy Freund, says Lance Armstrong. I'm an amiable guy, but I won't do it. I wouldn't want to hurt anyone.
Fine, says Freud, then I shall ask Cadel Evans. Perhaps he is less amiable than you.
The VeloDrone and Le Bon David have been listening. They decide it's time to intervene.
The VeloDrone: Well, hello, Professor Freud! What a surprise to see you here.
Professor Freud: Gotterdammerung! You are the last person I wish to see at the Tour Down Under!
The VeloDrone: Why so?
Professor Freud: Because I am here trying to double check the physics for the story I am writing for your magazine. I feel embarrassed.
The VeloDrone: No need to feel embarrassed. Perhaps David and I can help.
Le Bon David: Yes, my friend, we should be honoured.
Professor Freud: If you are here as members of Team Philosophe, then certainly you can be of some assistance.
The VeloDrone: No, unfortunately we are not. We forgot to get our entries in on time.
Professor Freud: Then I fail to see how you can help. I need the cooperation of some riders.
Le Bon David: Aha my friend! But we know something you don't know. Team Existentialist is here, and desperate for a sponsorship. I'm sure that whatever it is you wish them to do, they will do for a middling fee. And we will be only too happy to introduce you.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Clare to Tanunda
The VeloDrone and Le Bon David are in Clare this morning for the start of the first stage of the Tour Down Under. Le Bon David is in a silly mood.
Le Bon David: I wonda who wonda Tour Down Unda in Tanunda?
The VeloDrone: Very funny David, except they won't have started yet.
Le Bon David: By thunda what a blunda!
The VeloDrone: David, if I didn't know you better I'd think that you'd been drinking.
Le Bon David: Well I have. This region is famous for its lovely wines. And honey too. I've been eating lashings of delightful honey, drizzled all over my breakfast toast. I'm quite sticky.
The VeloDrone: Lucky you're not driving then. By the way, did you find out anything about the gentleman with his pockets full of stones?
Le Bon David: Hee Hee! You won't believe it!
The VeloDrone: What! What! Tell me.
Le Bon David: It was our old friend Professor Freud. I knew as soon as I heard his German accent, even though he was dressed in a ridiculous suit of Lycra and didn't look like his usual self at all.
The VeloDrone: Lycra? With the pockets full of stones?
Le Bon David: Yes, he seems to have had special pockets let in.
The VeloDrone: Did you find out what he was up to?
Le Bon David: (doubtfully) I think so. He was trying to give a stone to any of the riders who would take one. But he wasn't having any luck.
The VeloDrone: I'm not surprised. It would slow them down no end. What the devil can it mean?
Le Bon David: There he is! Let's go over and see what we can learn.
Le Bon David: I wonda who wonda Tour Down Unda in Tanunda?
The VeloDrone: Very funny David, except they won't have started yet.
Le Bon David: By thunda what a blunda!
The VeloDrone: David, if I didn't know you better I'd think that you'd been drinking.
Le Bon David: Well I have. This region is famous for its lovely wines. And honey too. I've been eating lashings of delightful honey, drizzled all over my breakfast toast. I'm quite sticky.
The VeloDrone: Lucky you're not driving then. By the way, did you find out anything about the gentleman with his pockets full of stones?
Le Bon David: Hee Hee! You won't believe it!
The VeloDrone: What! What! Tell me.
Le Bon David: It was our old friend Professor Freud. I knew as soon as I heard his German accent, even though he was dressed in a ridiculous suit of Lycra and didn't look like his usual self at all.
The VeloDrone: Lycra? With the pockets full of stones?
Le Bon David: Yes, he seems to have had special pockets let in.
The VeloDrone: Did you find out what he was up to?
Le Bon David: (doubtfully) I think so. He was trying to give a stone to any of the riders who would take one. But he wasn't having any luck.
The VeloDrone: I'm not surprised. It would slow them down no end. What the devil can it mean?
Le Bon David: There he is! Let's go over and see what we can learn.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Rest Day
The VeloDrone and Le Bon David are discussing interview tactics.
The VeloDrone: I've teed up an interview with Cadel Evans this morning. What do you think I should ask him?
Le Bon David: Ask him about his Rainbow Jersey. That will get him in a good mood. See if he'll show you the rainbow stripes he's just had painted on his bicycle. Then when you've softened him up, hit him with something philosophical. Something our readers would be interested to read.
The VeloDrone: Like, why is winning important?
Le Bon David: No, of course not. He won't know what you mean by that. I mean something a bit more esoteric. Ask him if he prefers going uphill or downhill, for example. And when he says going downhill, ask him why.
The VeloDrone: What if he says going uphill?
Le Bon David: You can still ask him why. But I'll be very surprised if he prefers going uphill.
The VeloDrone: Then isn't it rather a silly question?
Le Bon David: No. And anyway, if I am surprised, so much the better.
The VeloDrone: Yes, yes, I quite see that. I'll ask him. Meanwhile, what are you going to do today?
Le Bon David: Since it is a rest day, I'm thinking of having a rest.
The VeloDrone: I have a better idea. Why don't you try and find out what that gentleman is up to over there?
Le Bon David: Where?
The VeloDrone: There. The one with his pockets full of stones.
The VeloDrone: I've teed up an interview with Cadel Evans this morning. What do you think I should ask him?
Le Bon David: Ask him about his Rainbow Jersey. That will get him in a good mood. See if he'll show you the rainbow stripes he's just had painted on his bicycle. Then when you've softened him up, hit him with something philosophical. Something our readers would be interested to read.
The VeloDrone: Like, why is winning important?
Le Bon David: No, of course not. He won't know what you mean by that. I mean something a bit more esoteric. Ask him if he prefers going uphill or downhill, for example. And when he says going downhill, ask him why.
The VeloDrone: What if he says going uphill?
Le Bon David: You can still ask him why. But I'll be very surprised if he prefers going uphill.
The VeloDrone: Then isn't it rather a silly question?
Le Bon David: No. And anyway, if I am surprised, so much the better.
The VeloDrone: Yes, yes, I quite see that. I'll ask him. Meanwhile, what are you going to do today?
Le Bon David: Since it is a rest day, I'm thinking of having a rest.
The VeloDrone: I have a better idea. Why don't you try and find out what that gentleman is up to over there?
Le Bon David: Where?
The VeloDrone: There. The one with his pockets full of stones.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Iced Coffee
We ought to have entered this ourselves, said the Velodrone. Why on earth didn't we?
Forgot it was on, said Le Bon David gloomily. Until it was too late.
Look, there's Jean-Jacques Rousseau over there with Jean Paul Sartre. They must have remembered.
Yes, said Le Bon David. Team Existentialist! What a joke! They'll never be able to agree on anything. Look at them arguing already over their breakfast. Let's sneak over and see if we can hear what they're saying.
The VeloDrone and Le Bon David sidle over to the cafe table where Rousseau and Sartre are deep in discussion under a colourful umbrella. They sit down at the next table with their backs towards Team Existentialist, and their ears open.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: What's this you've got me! Farmers Union Iced Coffee? I can't drink this!
Jean Paul Sartre: Yes you can. It's a South Australian icon. All the locals drink it. If we're seen drinking it, who knows, we might get a sponsorship deal.
Jean-Jacques: Sacre Bleu! It tastes like a drink for a baby! And why aren't you drinking it yourself?
Jean Paul Sartre: It gives me bad gas. But at least I have it on the table in front of me. I'm sticking to water today.
Jean Jacques: Perhaps I should too. Eh bien! At least the weather here is agreeable. Who else is here by the way?
Jean Paul Sartre: Oh, Lance Armstrong with his new team, and Cadel Evans with his. Everyone has a new team. New bikes, new shoes, new sunnies, new jerseys, everything. What an event this is going to be!
Jean Jacques: Yes.....but wait a minute. New bikes, new shoes, new sunnies, new jerseys? How come we don't have those?
Jean Paul Sartre: Drink up your Farmers Union Iced Coffee, my friend, and then we shall see!
Jean-Jacques: Burrrp!
Forgot it was on, said Le Bon David gloomily. Until it was too late.
Look, there's Jean-Jacques Rousseau over there with Jean Paul Sartre. They must have remembered.
Yes, said Le Bon David. Team Existentialist! What a joke! They'll never be able to agree on anything. Look at them arguing already over their breakfast. Let's sneak over and see if we can hear what they're saying.
The VeloDrone and Le Bon David sidle over to the cafe table where Rousseau and Sartre are deep in discussion under a colourful umbrella. They sit down at the next table with their backs towards Team Existentialist, and their ears open.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: What's this you've got me! Farmers Union Iced Coffee? I can't drink this!
Jean Paul Sartre: Yes you can. It's a South Australian icon. All the locals drink it. If we're seen drinking it, who knows, we might get a sponsorship deal.
Jean-Jacques: Sacre Bleu! It tastes like a drink for a baby! And why aren't you drinking it yourself?
Jean Paul Sartre: It gives me bad gas. But at least I have it on the table in front of me. I'm sticking to water today.
Jean Jacques: Perhaps I should too. Eh bien! At least the weather here is agreeable. Who else is here by the way?
Jean Paul Sartre: Oh, Lance Armstrong with his new team, and Cadel Evans with his. Everyone has a new team. New bikes, new shoes, new sunnies, new jerseys, everything. What an event this is going to be!
Jean Jacques: Yes.....but wait a minute. New bikes, new shoes, new sunnies, new jerseys? How come we don't have those?
Jean Paul Sartre: Drink up your Farmers Union Iced Coffee, my friend, and then we shall see!
Jean-Jacques: Burrrp!
Friday, January 15, 2010
Tour Down Under
The editors of Velosophy are back in the office after their holiday break.
The VeloDrone: Have you heard anything from Professor Freud about his Galileo story?
Le Bon David: Yes, he says it's nearly ready, but he just needs to double check the physics.
The VeloDrone: The physics! Does Freud know anything about physics?
Le Bon David: Exactly! That's why he's double checking it, I suppose. I hope it won't turn out to be full of embarrassing errors.
The VeloDrone: So do I. But let's hope he gets a move on. We don't have anything for our next edition.
Le Bon David: You forget. The Tour Down Under starts on Sunday. We can do something on that. In fact, why don't we travel to Adelaide ourselves and see if we can come up with a few cycling stories. Interview the riders, that sort of thing.
The VeloDrone: You and me?
Le Bon David: Yes, take our bicycles, get amongst them. Come on, it'll be fun.
The VeloDrone: Alright, David. As long as you promise me one thing.
Le Bon David: What?
The VeloDrone: To let me drive the campervan. Remember what happened last time?
Le Bon David: That was not my fault. But yes, agreed. And we'll start tonight.
The VeloDrone: Have you heard anything from Professor Freud about his Galileo story?
Le Bon David: Yes, he says it's nearly ready, but he just needs to double check the physics.
The VeloDrone: The physics! Does Freud know anything about physics?
Le Bon David: Exactly! That's why he's double checking it, I suppose. I hope it won't turn out to be full of embarrassing errors.
The VeloDrone: So do I. But let's hope he gets a move on. We don't have anything for our next edition.
Le Bon David: You forget. The Tour Down Under starts on Sunday. We can do something on that. In fact, why don't we travel to Adelaide ourselves and see if we can come up with a few cycling stories. Interview the riders, that sort of thing.
The VeloDrone: You and me?
Le Bon David: Yes, take our bicycles, get amongst them. Come on, it'll be fun.
The VeloDrone: Alright, David. As long as you promise me one thing.
Le Bon David: What?
The VeloDrone: To let me drive the campervan. Remember what happened last time?
Le Bon David: That was not my fault. But yes, agreed. And we'll start tonight.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
London
Pliny and Nostradamus were eating their lunch at a wooden table under the ancient and ragged casuarinas at the grassy end of the carpark next to the Henley Sailing Club.
A soft cool breeze blew over their picnic from the sea. A yacht with white sails moved between the papery tree trunks on a sea of brilliant turquoise green and blue. A vapour trail dissolved in the sky.
They ate cold sausages left over from last night's barbecue, a farewell dinner for their daughter who was going back to London.
They ate potato salad, rocket and tiny red tomatoes from the garden. They dipped into a pot of mustard their daughter had given them for Christmas.
They ate nectarines and grapes, washed down with tapwater from a plastic bottle.
It was too beautiful to go straight home. They walked on the beach for a while, sometimes looking at the colours of the sea and the sand banks and the shallow pools, and sometimes looking up into the sky to see if they could spot the plane their daughter was flying out on.
A soft cool breeze blew over their picnic from the sea. A yacht with white sails moved between the papery tree trunks on a sea of brilliant turquoise green and blue. A vapour trail dissolved in the sky.
They ate cold sausages left over from last night's barbecue, a farewell dinner for their daughter who was going back to London.
They ate potato salad, rocket and tiny red tomatoes from the garden. They dipped into a pot of mustard their daughter had given them for Christmas.
They ate nectarines and grapes, washed down with tapwater from a plastic bottle.
It was too beautiful to go straight home. They walked on the beach for a while, sometimes looking at the colours of the sea and the sand banks and the shallow pools, and sometimes looking up into the sky to see if they could spot the plane their daughter was flying out on.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Dung of Dormice, Druncke
" In Physick dormice also have a place. Eating the flesh frees from dog-hunger; the fat provokes sleep if you anoint the soles of the feet therewith; the dung, druncke, breaks the stone; the same with vinegar and rosemary cures shedding the hair; the ashes cleare the eyesight." I stopped reading.
Who wrote that? asked Pliny. Was it me?
No, it wasn't you. It was Joannes Jonstonus, in 1678.
He was probably quoting me, said Pliny. I know those cures.
I bet they didn't work. And what's dog-hunger?
It is when you suffer from excessive hunger, as when you feel you could eat a dog.
Why wouldn't you just eat a dog?
A Roman would never eat a dog.
And have you ever tried anointing your feet with dormouse fat to help you sleep?
No, I never have any trouble sleeping. I work until I am so tired I drop off at once. But some of my relatives have tried it, I believe with some success.
I can't understand how it would work, Pliny. And surely it would make a dreadful mess of the sheets.
Not if you are sensible and put on some socks.
Then might it not be the socks that help you to sleep?
That may have something to do with it. But not everyone wears socks. Do you have any other questions? Surely you wish to know more about the dung drinking cure?
No Pliny, I don't.
Who wrote that? asked Pliny. Was it me?
No, it wasn't you. It was Joannes Jonstonus, in 1678.
He was probably quoting me, said Pliny. I know those cures.
I bet they didn't work. And what's dog-hunger?
It is when you suffer from excessive hunger, as when you feel you could eat a dog.
Why wouldn't you just eat a dog?
A Roman would never eat a dog.
And have you ever tried anointing your feet with dormouse fat to help you sleep?
No, I never have any trouble sleeping. I work until I am so tired I drop off at once. But some of my relatives have tried it, I believe with some success.
I can't understand how it would work, Pliny. And surely it would make a dreadful mess of the sheets.
Not if you are sensible and put on some socks.
Then might it not be the socks that help you to sleep?
That may have something to do with it. But not everyone wears socks. Do you have any other questions? Surely you wish to know more about the dung drinking cure?
No Pliny, I don't.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Stuffed Dormouse
What exactly is a dormouse, surely it isn't a mouse, Pliny? I asked hopefully.
No, it isn't an ordinary mouse, answered Pliny. It is related to the mouse, but is a different species. It is given the name dormouse because it sleeps for three quarters of its life, and its proper name is Glis glis, which refers to its luscious fat.
Its luscious fat! I exclaimed. Was that why you ate them?
It was indeed, replied Pliny. We kept them in pens and fed them on hazelnuts to improve their flavour.
Mmmm! And how did you cook them, Pliny?
The best method was to stuff them with a forcemeat of pork and small pieces of dormouse trimmings.....
Such as the legs?
Such as the legs. And the forcemeat would be pounded with pepper, nuts, wine and broth. Then the stuffed dormouse would be put into an earthen casserole and roasted in the oven or boiled in a stockpot.
And it tasted good?
Nothing better! Pliny licked his lips. Are you going to make it for my birthday dinner?
If I can find a dormouse, I said doubtfully. Is there anything I could use as a substitute?
A beaver, or a guinea pig, said Pliny. But it would be nowhere near as good.
No, it isn't an ordinary mouse, answered Pliny. It is related to the mouse, but is a different species. It is given the name dormouse because it sleeps for three quarters of its life, and its proper name is Glis glis, which refers to its luscious fat.
Its luscious fat! I exclaimed. Was that why you ate them?
It was indeed, replied Pliny. We kept them in pens and fed them on hazelnuts to improve their flavour.
Mmmm! And how did you cook them, Pliny?
The best method was to stuff them with a forcemeat of pork and small pieces of dormouse trimmings.....
Such as the legs?
Such as the legs. And the forcemeat would be pounded with pepper, nuts, wine and broth. Then the stuffed dormouse would be put into an earthen casserole and roasted in the oven or boiled in a stockpot.
And it tasted good?
Nothing better! Pliny licked his lips. Are you going to make it for my birthday dinner?
If I can find a dormouse, I said doubtfully. Is there anything I could use as a substitute?
A beaver, or a guinea pig, said Pliny. But it would be nowhere near as good.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Pliny's Roman Menu
What's this? says Pliny. Pliny's Roman Menu. What are you doing with this? Let me see.
No, Pliny it's mine.
How can it be yours? It's got my name on it.
I'm making a birthday card for someone, and I'm doing it in the form of a Roman Menu. I thought he might like to see the sorts of things you Romans used to eat at your banquets.
What sorts of things? Let me have a look. Oh, Jellyfish and eggs for starters, Yes, yes, that would be very nice, and Cows Udders stuffed with salted sea urchins, good. Also Patina of Brains, baked with milk and eggs, and Boiled Tree Fungi in peppered fish fat sauce. These are all delightful dishes, and recall most pleasant memories.
You really did eat these things, Pliny?
Hardly ever. I was known for my austerity and was usually far too busy to eat any but the simplest of foods, but I must admit to enjoying the occasional more indulgent sort of dinner. What's the first course?
Dormice stuffed with port and dormouse legs, Peacock eggs, Beans, asparagus and lettuce.
Very good indeed. But you may have trouble finding some of these things in the shops.
What do you mean Pliny?
For my birthday dinner.
For your ......? Oh, but it wasn't.......Oh, yes. I shall just have to do my best with what's available, I suppose.
No, Pliny it's mine.
How can it be yours? It's got my name on it.
I'm making a birthday card for someone, and I'm doing it in the form of a Roman Menu. I thought he might like to see the sorts of things you Romans used to eat at your banquets.
What sorts of things? Let me have a look. Oh, Jellyfish and eggs for starters, Yes, yes, that would be very nice, and Cows Udders stuffed with salted sea urchins, good. Also Patina of Brains, baked with milk and eggs, and Boiled Tree Fungi in peppered fish fat sauce. These are all delightful dishes, and recall most pleasant memories.
You really did eat these things, Pliny?
Hardly ever. I was known for my austerity and was usually far too busy to eat any but the simplest of foods, but I must admit to enjoying the occasional more indulgent sort of dinner. What's the first course?
Dormice stuffed with port and dormouse legs, Peacock eggs, Beans, asparagus and lettuce.
Very good indeed. But you may have trouble finding some of these things in the shops.
What do you mean Pliny?
For my birthday dinner.
For your ......? Oh, but it wasn't.......Oh, yes. I shall just have to do my best with what's available, I suppose.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Brighton in the Afternoon
We don't always go to the beach at sunset. Take Sunday, for instance.
We were at my mum's visiting. It was 4 o'clock, and 42 degrees. She packed us off down the road for a swim, but she didn't come. The beach is no place for an old person on a day like this, she said.
We walked down Smith Street to the beach, down the steps and into the sea. There were more people in the water than out, feet balanced on underwater ripples of sand edged with an algal green. Knees bent in the sea not swimming. Hands floating in the top layer of water which was hot. Breathing the humid air hovering at head height over the flat slightly heaving green and yellow sea.
Not every old person had felt like my mum. Knees bent in the water close to the shore an old man harangued his wife and regaled her with a funny story. He stood up. His swimming trunks sagged. He pulled them up. He bent towards his wife and adjusted the strap of her swim suit. She continued to stare at the shore.
And I continued to stare at the shore, with the sun behind my head. Bright amoeba-like shapes slid over the skin of the waves reflecting the rocks and the tall creamy houses over the road. The first time I'd ever noticed those slices of houses shimmering in that sea.
We were at my mum's visiting. It was 4 o'clock, and 42 degrees. She packed us off down the road for a swim, but she didn't come. The beach is no place for an old person on a day like this, she said.
We walked down Smith Street to the beach, down the steps and into the sea. There were more people in the water than out, feet balanced on underwater ripples of sand edged with an algal green. Knees bent in the sea not swimming. Hands floating in the top layer of water which was hot. Breathing the humid air hovering at head height over the flat slightly heaving green and yellow sea.
Not every old person had felt like my mum. Knees bent in the water close to the shore an old man harangued his wife and regaled her with a funny story. He stood up. His swimming trunks sagged. He pulled them up. He bent towards his wife and adjusted the strap of her swim suit. She continued to stare at the shore.
And I continued to stare at the shore, with the sun behind my head. Bright amoeba-like shapes slid over the skin of the waves reflecting the rocks and the tall creamy houses over the road. The first time I'd ever noticed those slices of houses shimmering in that sea.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Grange at Sunset
When it's hot, like this, we go to the beach at sunset. On Friday we went to Grange.
The sun sets at 8.30pm. At 8.20 the sky at the horizon is a pale shade of lemon. The sun is sinking fast, a brilliant orange. A two-masted boat darkens off shore, heads bob and kiss in the shoulder-deep water.
Old men and women in swimsuits gossip at the water's edge. Towels are dragged back from the incoming tide. Everyone's waiting for sunset.
The sea is a black and primrose mosaic, the sky at the horizon the colour of toffee, a streak of orange pink cloud stretches itself thin.
The sun is three quarters below the horizon, the sky is tomato red. Fourteen seagulls fly north at a great height through deep blue air, and the first star shows.
A single light shines from one mast of the boat, a flag flaps from the other. Someone moves on the deck.
A man on the shore squats to photograph the boat against the sun's last rays
Voices mingle with the waves. Six seagulls fly north up the gulf. The tomato red sky turns first to marmalade, and then to no colour at all. People pack up their towels and children and empty drink bottles. Time to leave the black sea to itself.
The sun sets at 8.30pm. At 8.20 the sky at the horizon is a pale shade of lemon. The sun is sinking fast, a brilliant orange. A two-masted boat darkens off shore, heads bob and kiss in the shoulder-deep water.
Old men and women in swimsuits gossip at the water's edge. Towels are dragged back from the incoming tide. Everyone's waiting for sunset.
The sea is a black and primrose mosaic, the sky at the horizon the colour of toffee, a streak of orange pink cloud stretches itself thin.
The sun is three quarters below the horizon, the sky is tomato red. Fourteen seagulls fly north at a great height through deep blue air, and the first star shows.
A single light shines from one mast of the boat, a flag flaps from the other. Someone moves on the deck.
A man on the shore squats to photograph the boat against the sun's last rays
Voices mingle with the waves. Six seagulls fly north up the gulf. The tomato red sky turns first to marmalade, and then to no colour at all. People pack up their towels and children and empty drink bottles. Time to leave the black sea to itself.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Dora Maar au Chat
Whereas I, said Pablo thoughtfully, am a well-known cat lover. I gave a cat to Dora Maar. I painted her with it. In the painting the cat sits on her shoulder. Her nails were long and pointed.
The cat's?
Dora's. She liked cats. She liked dogs better. Your Pliny, he doesn't like cats?
He isn't a Cat Lover.
Pliny pricked up his ears, and came over.
It is not the case that I do not like cats. I neither like them nor dislike them. Large cats are associated with violence and lust. Small cats too are associated with violence and lust, but naturally on a smaller scale.
Yes, yes! cried Picasso. I fully agree! I associate cats with women, their feminine wiles, their sexual aggression. That was why I painted Dora with a cat, and not with her stupid dog. Of course the dog by then had died, that was another reason. But there was no way I was going to give her another dog. O Pablo Pablo! she would have said. Paint me with my little dog! And I would have had to do it. But how could I have placed it on her shoulder?
I didn't think you had a problem with strange juxtapositions, said Pliny. However I understand what you are saying about women.
No you don't, I said, interrupting, and anyway I thought we were talking about cats.
My apologies, said Pliny, turning once again to Picasso. We were indeed talking about cats, and art. I myself have particularly admired a wonderfully fashioned mosaic of a cat with a bird, to be found at Pompeii.
I know it well, said Pablo. In fact my Wounded Bird and Cat painting from 1938 is based on that tradition.
Oh is it? said Pliny. That is most interesting. I should like to see your Wounded Bird and Cat.
I'm sure that you could google it, said Pablo, looking gratified.
The cat's?
Dora's. She liked cats. She liked dogs better. Your Pliny, he doesn't like cats?
He isn't a Cat Lover.
Pliny pricked up his ears, and came over.
It is not the case that I do not like cats. I neither like them nor dislike them. Large cats are associated with violence and lust. Small cats too are associated with violence and lust, but naturally on a smaller scale.
Yes, yes! cried Picasso. I fully agree! I associate cats with women, their feminine wiles, their sexual aggression. That was why I painted Dora with a cat, and not with her stupid dog. Of course the dog by then had died, that was another reason. But there was no way I was going to give her another dog. O Pablo Pablo! she would have said. Paint me with my little dog! And I would have had to do it. But how could I have placed it on her shoulder?
I didn't think you had a problem with strange juxtapositions, said Pliny. However I understand what you are saying about women.
No you don't, I said, interrupting, and anyway I thought we were talking about cats.
My apologies, said Pliny, turning once again to Picasso. We were indeed talking about cats, and art. I myself have particularly admired a wonderfully fashioned mosaic of a cat with a bird, to be found at Pompeii.
I know it well, said Pablo. In fact my Wounded Bird and Cat painting from 1938 is based on that tradition.
Oh is it? said Pliny. That is most interesting. I should like to see your Wounded Bird and Cat.
I'm sure that you could google it, said Pablo, looking gratified.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Cat and Crab on the Beach
Knock Knock
Who's there?
Pablo Picasso.
Oh, come in! Pliny and I were just wondering about your Cat and Crab on the Beach painting, which is blue.
What were you wondering, my friends?
Pliny has made a study of your Blue Period yet he doesn't remember seeing this one.
Aha! That is because I painted it long after my Blue Period which was from 1900 to 1904. In fact I painted Cat and Crab on the Beach in 1965.
Then why did you paint it in various shades of blue?
Oh, it was 1965. I was into post modernism. Referencing my own Blue Period. For fun, you know.
I see. Well it's a very fine painting, I think.
Do you? Muchas gracias. Tell me why you like it.
I like the way the shapes of the crab, the shells and the rocks mirror one another, I like how the crab's claw and the cat's tail are in balance. I like how they are eyeballing one another. And I like the fact that it's blue. I like how you've painted the crab's antennules, too.
I have? What in heaven's name are those?
Its smelling organs.
Glad you noticed, my dear. Glad you noticed. Where did you see my painting, by the way? I didn't think it was all that well known today.
Oh, I found it through google on a site called Cat Lovers Gift Guide.
Cat Lovers Gift Guide! My painting! Ay Caramba!
Don't worry, they were only selling it as a poster. Pliny was almost going to buy one.
Dios! What stopped him?
He's not a Cat Lover.
Who's there?
Pablo Picasso.
Oh, come in! Pliny and I were just wondering about your Cat and Crab on the Beach painting, which is blue.
What were you wondering, my friends?
Pliny has made a study of your Blue Period yet he doesn't remember seeing this one.
Aha! That is because I painted it long after my Blue Period which was from 1900 to 1904. In fact I painted Cat and Crab on the Beach in 1965.
Then why did you paint it in various shades of blue?
Oh, it was 1965. I was into post modernism. Referencing my own Blue Period. For fun, you know.
I see. Well it's a very fine painting, I think.
Do you? Muchas gracias. Tell me why you like it.
I like the way the shapes of the crab, the shells and the rocks mirror one another, I like how the crab's claw and the cat's tail are in balance. I like how they are eyeballing one another. And I like the fact that it's blue. I like how you've painted the crab's antennules, too.
I have? What in heaven's name are those?
Its smelling organs.
Glad you noticed, my dear. Glad you noticed. Where did you see my painting, by the way? I didn't think it was all that well known today.
Oh, I found it through google on a site called Cat Lovers Gift Guide.
Cat Lovers Gift Guide! My painting! Ay Caramba!
Don't worry, they were only selling it as a poster. Pliny was almost going to buy one.
Dios! What stopped him?
He's not a Cat Lover.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
The Crab Nose Mystery.
Pliny thinks he has come up with the answer to the crab nose mystery.
In the case of the crab, he says, it seems there is a nose, and then there is a nose.
What do you mean? I ask, confused.
I mean, he says, that there is the sensory appendage, or smelling organ, located in the antennules, and then there is the rostrum, or pointy end of the carapace, which is also referrred to as the crab's nose.
Well, well, I say. That explains the Longnose and the Sharpnose Crab. Whoever would have thought crabs had two noses ?
Three noses, says Pliny. Two antennules and a rostrum. I must make a note of that for future reference.
Do you suppose it might turn out to be a useful piece of knowledge?
It is always useful to clear up a confusion.
So it is. By the way Pliny, remember how I said that my crab looked like something by Picasso?
I do. And I said I only knew Picasso's Blue Period.
You did. Now take a look at this. It's by Picasso, and entitled Cat and Crab on the Beach.
Good heavens! It's painted all in different shades of blue! But I've never set eyes on it before!
Do you suppose we have another mystery?
In the case of the crab, he says, it seems there is a nose, and then there is a nose.
What do you mean? I ask, confused.
I mean, he says, that there is the sensory appendage, or smelling organ, located in the antennules, and then there is the rostrum, or pointy end of the carapace, which is also referrred to as the crab's nose.
Well, well, I say. That explains the Longnose and the Sharpnose Crab. Whoever would have thought crabs had two noses ?
Three noses, says Pliny. Two antennules and a rostrum. I must make a note of that for future reference.
Do you suppose it might turn out to be a useful piece of knowledge?
It is always useful to clear up a confusion.
So it is. By the way Pliny, remember how I said that my crab looked like something by Picasso?
I do. And I said I only knew Picasso's Blue Period.
You did. Now take a look at this. It's by Picasso, and entitled Cat and Crab on the Beach.
Good heavens! It's painted all in different shades of blue! But I've never set eyes on it before!
Do you suppose we have another mystery?
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Crab on the Beach
You are bluffing, said Pliny. I can tell. You don't know whether crabs have noses or not.
Alright, Pliny. I don't. But what if I meant the crab had a nose in the sense that a fine wine has a nose?
Sophistry again, sniffed Pliny. I do not believe that a crab has a nose. But I am willing to put that belief to the test. Let us google it, and settle the question.
Let's, I agreed. You start.
Hmmm, hmmm c...r...a...b........n...o...s...e......enter, mumbled Pliny, typing it in. Oh look at this! They do have noses. Robber Crabs have smelling organs called aesthetascs, mounted on antennae or antennules.
How fascinating, I said, but Robber Crabs live on the land, and steal pots and silverware from tents, or so it says here. What about crabs that live in rock pools ?
Yes, said Pliny, your ordinary crab has these antennules too. They are chemoreceptors that enable it to taste and smell.
Well, that is not the sort of nose I imagined, I said, disappointed. What about the Longnose Spider Crab and the Sharpnose Crab? Surely their noses are not antennules?
Their names do seem to indicate a larger type of nose, agreed Pliny. We shall have to continue our googling.
Alright, Pliny. I don't. But what if I meant the crab had a nose in the sense that a fine wine has a nose?
Sophistry again, sniffed Pliny. I do not believe that a crab has a nose. But I am willing to put that belief to the test. Let us google it, and settle the question.
Let's, I agreed. You start.
Hmmm, hmmm c...r...a...b........n...o...s...e......enter, mumbled Pliny, typing it in. Oh look at this! They do have noses. Robber Crabs have smelling organs called aesthetascs, mounted on antennae or antennules.
How fascinating, I said, but Robber Crabs live on the land, and steal pots and silverware from tents, or so it says here. What about crabs that live in rock pools ?
Yes, said Pliny, your ordinary crab has these antennules too. They are chemoreceptors that enable it to taste and smell.
Well, that is not the sort of nose I imagined, I said, disappointed. What about the Longnose Spider Crab and the Sharpnose Crab? Surely their noses are not antennules?
Their names do seem to indicate a larger type of nose, agreed Pliny. We shall have to continue our googling.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Wholeness
That dead crab, said Pliny the Elder.
What about it? I asked.
The one you wrote about at Aldinga reef that was tastefully arranged inside a hole, he added helpfully.
Yes, I know which crab you mean, I said patiently. Do you have a question about it?
I do, said Pliny. Was it all in one piece or was it in pieces?
Didn't I make it clear? I asked.
No you didn't, said Pliny. You said most of the crabs were dead and in pieces. Was the one in the hole whole or in pieces?
The one in the hole wasn't whole I said, trying not to laugh. It was in pieces.
And how big was the hole ? asked Pliny.
The whole crab?
The hole the crab was in.
It was, I said grandly, the exact size of the crab.
But you said that the crab was in pieces.
The pieces fitted perfectly into the hole.
How then, did you know that the crab was in pieces?
Pliny, I said, do you not know the works of Picasso?
Only his Blue period, said Pliny.
Aha. Picasso painted people with their parts unusually arranged. Their noses on their foreheads, both arms on the same side, I said, inventing wildly.
I see, said Pliny. I see. But crabs have no noses.
This one did, I said.
What about it? I asked.
The one you wrote about at Aldinga reef that was tastefully arranged inside a hole, he added helpfully.
Yes, I know which crab you mean, I said patiently. Do you have a question about it?
I do, said Pliny. Was it all in one piece or was it in pieces?
Didn't I make it clear? I asked.
No you didn't, said Pliny. You said most of the crabs were dead and in pieces. Was the one in the hole whole or in pieces?
The one in the hole wasn't whole I said, trying not to laugh. It was in pieces.
And how big was the hole ? asked Pliny.
The whole crab?
The hole the crab was in.
It was, I said grandly, the exact size of the crab.
But you said that the crab was in pieces.
The pieces fitted perfectly into the hole.
How then, did you know that the crab was in pieces?
Pliny, I said, do you not know the works of Picasso?
Only his Blue period, said Pliny.
Aha. Picasso painted people with their parts unusually arranged. Their noses on their foreheads, both arms on the same side, I said, inventing wildly.
I see, said Pliny. I see. But crabs have no noses.
This one did, I said.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Aldinga Reef
this is what we did on New Year's Day.
we drove an hour down the coast to Aldinga parked at the top of a cliff near a bin. the bin smelled of old crayfish we climbed down the sixty wooden steps to the beach.
the beach was half sand half heaps of dry brown seaweed, not the place for a picnic. broken concrete steps at the bottom of the wooden steps not the place either, near an outlet too, not the place.
we walked out onto the yellow sandstone reef it was hard. we walked a long way out it was windy. we sat down on a rocky platform with the sea gurgling behind us an expanse of reef in front and in the distance frothy spume. at the edge of the reef many metres away stood the seagulls and skuas and cormorants or whatever it was that they were. they were looking out to sea oblivious.
we ate the food we had brought.
this was a zuccini fritata, leek and gruyere tart, green salad and some cherries. these were rich and soaked up admirably the Cockatoo Ridge sparkling wine which was pink. some wine spilled on the sandstone where it fizzed loudly. five people appeared in the distance far away under the high blue sky and climbed the steps.
we stood up walked around peered into rockpools poked around in them with a stick looking for signs of life. most of the crabs were dead in pieces one dead crab arranged tastefully as by Picasso in a tiny hole, cheese and rhubarb coloured pieces of crab, circular.
we squelched through polypy pools of tepid water to the edge where stood the birds facing out to sea looking for what birds look for there. one of us approached them carefully until getting too close they flew away and floated in the water some way off except for one which did not care enough to leave. when we moved off they came back except the one who was already there.
we turned squelching back towards the steps, different steps that did not look so steep. but sixty steps is sixty steps and it was a long way to the top.
from the top, you see the fault lines in the reef.
we drove an hour down the coast to Aldinga parked at the top of a cliff near a bin. the bin smelled of old crayfish we climbed down the sixty wooden steps to the beach.
the beach was half sand half heaps of dry brown seaweed, not the place for a picnic. broken concrete steps at the bottom of the wooden steps not the place either, near an outlet too, not the place.
we walked out onto the yellow sandstone reef it was hard. we walked a long way out it was windy. we sat down on a rocky platform with the sea gurgling behind us an expanse of reef in front and in the distance frothy spume. at the edge of the reef many metres away stood the seagulls and skuas and cormorants or whatever it was that they were. they were looking out to sea oblivious.
we ate the food we had brought.
this was a zuccini fritata, leek and gruyere tart, green salad and some cherries. these were rich and soaked up admirably the Cockatoo Ridge sparkling wine which was pink. some wine spilled on the sandstone where it fizzed loudly. five people appeared in the distance far away under the high blue sky and climbed the steps.
we stood up walked around peered into rockpools poked around in them with a stick looking for signs of life. most of the crabs were dead in pieces one dead crab arranged tastefully as by Picasso in a tiny hole, cheese and rhubarb coloured pieces of crab, circular.
we squelched through polypy pools of tepid water to the edge where stood the birds facing out to sea looking for what birds look for there. one of us approached them carefully until getting too close they flew away and floated in the water some way off except for one which did not care enough to leave. when we moved off they came back except the one who was already there.
we turned squelching back towards the steps, different steps that did not look so steep. but sixty steps is sixty steps and it was a long way to the top.
from the top, you see the fault lines in the reef.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
New Year's Eve in Adelaide
By the time we reached Veale Gardens the temperature had dropped to 35 degrees and the sun was behind a cloud. We picnicked at a wooden table near the yellow concrete creek which hasn't seen water for quite some time. There seemed to be no one around until two men emerged from a hollow near the waterlessfall and went off in opposite directions.
We walked across town to Elder Park, for the family entertainment, and sat down on the scratchy grass, amongst the multitudes of families. It was 8.30 pm, the sun had set, the River Torrens darkened, water from the fountain drifted towards the bridge, and The Fairies were on stage. In their pretty pink dresses, dancing, Slide! Wiggle! Star! We had not thought the family entertainment would be supernatural. We left and found a little pub off Hindley Street where not many people were, but you could get a beer. It will pick up later, said the barmaid to the man setting up the music, and he looked as though he hoped that this was so.
Back to Elder Park where magically The Fairies were still dancing. Slide! Wiggle! Star! Would you like to see some fireworks? they cried! Yes, came a low positive hum. The fireworks went off beautifully for ten whole minutes, illuminating the sky and trees on the opposite bank of the river. Don't go away! said someone from the stage. There's more to come!
But we had had enough, and walked across town to Victoria Square. Once, this used to be the hub of New Year fun, the town hall clock would strike the New Year in, to cheers and toots and whistles and kisses, but not this year. A few tourists snapped the lonely Christmas tree.
We walked back to our car, passing three homeless people on an otherwise empty street. Happy New Year, mumbled one, without turning her head. Happy New Year, I said to another. He gave me two thumbs up, and grinned. We got through Christmas! he called, to our receding backs.
We drove to Skye to see the city lights and parked outside a large house on a salubrious street. The lights were out in all the houses, and no one was home up there.
At home we cracked open a bottle of Sparkling Shiraz. Sat in the darkened lounge looking through the window at the moonlit garden. A pool of light spilled onto the grass and lit up half the lavender bush. We spoke of the past year, the coming one, and many other things.
Our daughter came home, at quarter to one, and sighed. What is wrong with this town? she said.
We walked across town to Elder Park, for the family entertainment, and sat down on the scratchy grass, amongst the multitudes of families. It was 8.30 pm, the sun had set, the River Torrens darkened, water from the fountain drifted towards the bridge, and The Fairies were on stage. In their pretty pink dresses, dancing, Slide! Wiggle! Star! We had not thought the family entertainment would be supernatural. We left and found a little pub off Hindley Street where not many people were, but you could get a beer. It will pick up later, said the barmaid to the man setting up the music, and he looked as though he hoped that this was so.
Back to Elder Park where magically The Fairies were still dancing. Slide! Wiggle! Star! Would you like to see some fireworks? they cried! Yes, came a low positive hum. The fireworks went off beautifully for ten whole minutes, illuminating the sky and trees on the opposite bank of the river. Don't go away! said someone from the stage. There's more to come!
But we had had enough, and walked across town to Victoria Square. Once, this used to be the hub of New Year fun, the town hall clock would strike the New Year in, to cheers and toots and whistles and kisses, but not this year. A few tourists snapped the lonely Christmas tree.
We walked back to our car, passing three homeless people on an otherwise empty street. Happy New Year, mumbled one, without turning her head. Happy New Year, I said to another. He gave me two thumbs up, and grinned. We got through Christmas! he called, to our receding backs.
We drove to Skye to see the city lights and parked outside a large house on a salubrious street. The lights were out in all the houses, and no one was home up there.
At home we cracked open a bottle of Sparkling Shiraz. Sat in the darkened lounge looking through the window at the moonlit garden. A pool of light spilled onto the grass and lit up half the lavender bush. We spoke of the past year, the coming one, and many other things.
Our daughter came home, at quarter to one, and sighed. What is wrong with this town? she said.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Consulte deverto
So your motto is........? enquired Pliny.
My motto is, none of the above, I replied.
That's quite good, said Pliny, contemplatively scratching his nose.
No, not 'none of the above', I said scathingly.
What then? he asked, looking startled.
Consulte deverto, I said proudly.
You turn away deliberately? choked Pliny
No, not diverto, DEVERTO, I diverge, or digress.
Deliberately?
On purpose.
That suits you.
I know.
My motto is, none of the above, I replied.
That's quite good, said Pliny, contemplatively scratching his nose.
No, not 'none of the above', I said scathingly.
What then? he asked, looking startled.
Consulte deverto, I said proudly.
You turn away deliberately? choked Pliny
No, not diverto, DEVERTO, I diverge, or digress.
Deliberately?
On purpose.
That suits you.
I know.
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