I wonder if Jesus will pop round and see us this Easter? said Pliny the Elder. Do you remember how he came to dinner last year and multiplied the Brussels sprouts?
He didn't multiply them, Pliny, he divided them. But yes, of course I remember. He was very nice, and I remember you and he got on pretty well. I hope he does come round. I want to ask him if he's started keeping a diary.
Just then there was a knock at the front door.
Knock! Knock!
I opened it. There was Jesus, on a bicycle.
I was passing, he said, and thought I'd drop in.
Gosh! I said. I'm surprised to see you. Aren't you awfully busy at this time of year?
Au contraire! said Jesus. I always like to keep a low profile at Easter.
Come in, I said, but would you mind wheeling your bicycle round the side of the house to the back. We already have one bicycle in the dining room.
Certainly, said Jesus. ( Did I mention he was nice ? )
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Pliny's Haiku
Pliny the Elder is looking as though he hasn't had much sleep.
Good morning Pliny? I say. How's the Haiku coming along?
It's more difficult than I expected, he answers wearily. I have made multiple attempts to better your Haiku.
Read them out, I say, encouragingly.
Alright, here is my first attempt:
the sign on the path
reads no boats allowed in the yellow areas
which is amusing
Pliny! that's no good. You don't say why it's amusing, and no one would guess.
I know, says Pliny. I told you it was my first attempt. Here is my second:
surely this sign
would be better directed
at boats ?
Hmm. That doesn't do it either, Pliny. You don't explain what the sign says.
True, says Pliny. But stay with me. I'm just letting you in on the creative process. Here is my third attempt:
what is the point
of facing a sign directed at vessels
inland?
That's a bit better, but it doesn't sound very poetic, and it still leaves out a lot. What the sign says, what colour it is.....
Exactly, says Pliny. I came to the realization late last night that English is not the best language for Haiku. And since I am unfamiliar with Japanese, I decided to write one in Latin. I think you will agree that I have succeeded rather well.
Go on.
Pliny stands up and declaims in his best Roman style:
naves non licet ( boats not allowed )
in regione flava ( in the yellow area )
non ante naves ( not facing the boats )
I am silent.
Why are you silent?
I'm silent with admiration Pliny. That is so Japanese! You've got everything in. It's mind-boggling. You've even got the correct number of syllables!
Yes, says, Pliny. I know. Thank you.
Good morning Pliny? I say. How's the Haiku coming along?
It's more difficult than I expected, he answers wearily. I have made multiple attempts to better your Haiku.
Read them out, I say, encouragingly.
Alright, here is my first attempt:
the sign on the path
reads no boats allowed in the yellow areas
which is amusing
Pliny! that's no good. You don't say why it's amusing, and no one would guess.
I know, says Pliny. I told you it was my first attempt. Here is my second:
surely this sign
would be better directed
at boats ?
Hmm. That doesn't do it either, Pliny. You don't explain what the sign says.
True, says Pliny. But stay with me. I'm just letting you in on the creative process. Here is my third attempt:
what is the point
of facing a sign directed at vessels
inland?
That's a bit better, but it doesn't sound very poetic, and it still leaves out a lot. What the sign says, what colour it is.....
Exactly, says Pliny. I came to the realization late last night that English is not the best language for Haiku. And since I am unfamiliar with Japanese, I decided to write one in Latin. I think you will agree that I have succeeded rather well.
Go on.
Pliny stands up and declaims in his best Roman style:
naves non licet ( boats not allowed )
in regione flava ( in the yellow area )
non ante naves ( not facing the boats )
I am silent.
Why are you silent?
I'm silent with admiration Pliny. That is so Japanese! You've got everything in. It's mind-boggling. You've even got the correct number of syllables!
Yes, says, Pliny. I know. Thank you.
Monday, March 29, 2010
No Vessels Allowed
I don't know much about Haiku, observed Pliny the Elder, but I do feel that ' no vessels allowed in the areas marked in yellow ' is not a good example of the genre.
Well I don't know much about them either, I said. That is why I was able to turn out so many in such a short time. However I disagree with you about ' no vessels allowed'. I think it encapsulates exquisitely the sensation of reading a sign beside a path at the beach.
Only because that is exactly what it is, said Pliny. You haven't transformed it in any way.
No, I haven't, I agreed. Because with Haiku you only get three lines. And that is very restricting.
In Japanese the form is even more restrictive. The first line must have 5 syllables, the second line 7 and the third line 5. In English we allow ourselves a bit more freedom. The first line must be short, the second long, and the third line short. Nevertheless, there wasn't much room to tell the story of the sign.
The story?
Yes, I would have liked to make it clearer that the sign was facing the footpath, so no one on a vessel could have seen it, which was obviously quite funny.
Funny? You didn't make that clear at all. Perhaps if you had tried a little harder?
I don't think so. But I don't think anyone else could have done better.
I believe I could, said Pliny. Yes, I shall rise to the challenge.
Well I don't know much about them either, I said. That is why I was able to turn out so many in such a short time. However I disagree with you about ' no vessels allowed'. I think it encapsulates exquisitely the sensation of reading a sign beside a path at the beach.
Only because that is exactly what it is, said Pliny. You haven't transformed it in any way.
No, I haven't, I agreed. Because with Haiku you only get three lines. And that is very restricting.
In Japanese the form is even more restrictive. The first line must have 5 syllables, the second line 7 and the third line 5. In English we allow ourselves a bit more freedom. The first line must be short, the second long, and the third line short. Nevertheless, there wasn't much room to tell the story of the sign.
The story?
Yes, I would have liked to make it clearer that the sign was facing the footpath, so no one on a vessel could have seen it, which was obviously quite funny.
Funny? You didn't make that clear at all. Perhaps if you had tried a little harder?
I don't think so. But I don't think anyone else could have done better.
I believe I could, said Pliny. Yes, I shall rise to the challenge.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Haiku for Damp Seascape
at the outlet
on heavy sandbags, willie wagtails
pick at the scum
three figures
emerge from the sea
under the jetty
the rain turns the sand
grim beige and blackens
the stalks
ropey couch grass
takes on a sickly shade
of green
the salt bush
shines like silver
in the rain
the distant hills
bounce down the sky
to a sunless sea
no vessels allowed
in the areas marked
in yellow
a wet umbrella
shared aloft between two
my arm aches
on heavy sandbags, willie wagtails
pick at the scum
three figures
emerge from the sea
under the jetty
the rain turns the sand
grim beige and blackens
the stalks
ropey couch grass
takes on a sickly shade
of green
the salt bush
shines like silver
in the rain
the distant hills
bounce down the sky
to a sunless sea
no vessels allowed
in the areas marked
in yellow
a wet umbrella
shared aloft between two
my arm aches
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Irene Adler
Pliny the Elder is offended.
Of course I understand that the woman the old man sees is you, he says. That is clear enough. But my question is, who did he imagine you to be?
Oh I see, I say. Sorry Pliny. I thought you were a big fan of Sherlock Holmes. Surely you remember Irene Adler?
Pliny's face lights up. Irene Adler! The only woman ever to have outwitted Sherlock Holmes!
Yes Pliny. Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory. The woman Sherlock Holmes admired most. The woman he referred to ever after as The Woman.
An honour, says Pliny, for Holmes was not a whole-souled admirer of womankind.
Oh, you do know your Sherlock Holmes after all! Do you remember what the King of Bohemia was supposed to have said of Irene Adler?
That she had the face of the most beautiful of women and the mind of the most resolute of men.
Yes, and that's who the old man thought I was.
This is where I begin to have a problem, says Pliny.
Of course I understand that the woman the old man sees is you, he says. That is clear enough. But my question is, who did he imagine you to be?
Oh I see, I say. Sorry Pliny. I thought you were a big fan of Sherlock Holmes. Surely you remember Irene Adler?
Pliny's face lights up. Irene Adler! The only woman ever to have outwitted Sherlock Holmes!
Yes Pliny. Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory. The woman Sherlock Holmes admired most. The woman he referred to ever after as The Woman.
An honour, says Pliny, for Holmes was not a whole-souled admirer of womankind.
Oh, you do know your Sherlock Holmes after all! Do you remember what the King of Bohemia was supposed to have said of Irene Adler?
That she had the face of the most beautiful of women and the mind of the most resolute of men.
Yes, and that's who the old man thought I was.
This is where I begin to have a problem, says Pliny.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Mysterious Encounter - Part 3
Here we are now, I say to Pliny. This is the third poem, which I wrote a week later on the 20th of June 2009. Pliny? Are you listening?
Yes, says Pliny. I am listening.
I read aloud:
The Continuing Adventure of Old Mr Sherlock Holmes.
I saw him again last night
In the same dark place,
But I had misremembered Toby,
Who was brown, with a black face.
The old man was the same
Slow, twisted and lame.
I spoke to him this time: Hello! Perhaps too loud.
He turned towards me,
Straining to see,
And bowed.
Hah! says Pliny, that still doesn't prove.......
Wait, I reply. There is a second part.
A second part! Are you by any chance stringing me along?
No, certainly not. There is a second part, with a separate title. Pay attention, because it contains a revelation:
Old Mr. Holmes Muses by the Fire.
You know Toby old chap,
Sometimes I think I see
On winter evenings,
Walking,
The woman, and even he.
Tonight I was almost sure
I heard her voice
Say Good evening Holmes, to me.
I strained my eyes
But nothing palpable
Could I see.
And you Toby,
Seemed to be
Sniffing around the wrong tree.
Remarkable! says Pliny. I am impressed. This does indeed seem to prove that he was Sherlock Holmes. But who is the woman?
Pliny! I say, crossly, haven't you understood anything?
Yes, says Pliny. I am listening.
I read aloud:
The Continuing Adventure of Old Mr Sherlock Holmes.
I saw him again last night
In the same dark place,
But I had misremembered Toby,
Who was brown, with a black face.
The old man was the same
Slow, twisted and lame.
I spoke to him this time: Hello! Perhaps too loud.
He turned towards me,
Straining to see,
And bowed.
Hah! says Pliny, that still doesn't prove.......
Wait, I reply. There is a second part.
A second part! Are you by any chance stringing me along?
No, certainly not. There is a second part, with a separate title. Pay attention, because it contains a revelation:
Old Mr. Holmes Muses by the Fire.
You know Toby old chap,
Sometimes I think I see
On winter evenings,
Walking,
The woman, and even he.
Tonight I was almost sure
I heard her voice
Say Good evening Holmes, to me.
I strained my eyes
But nothing palpable
Could I see.
And you Toby,
Seemed to be
Sniffing around the wrong tree.
Remarkable! says Pliny. I am impressed. This does indeed seem to prove that he was Sherlock Holmes. But who is the woman?
Pliny! I say, crossly, haven't you understood anything?
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Mysterious Encounter - Part 2
Read me the second poem, says Pliny the Elder. I am all ears.
Alright. I say. It's called "Sequel". And listen out for the interesting rhyme scheme.
I turn the page, and begin to read:
Sequel.
I think I know now what that vision meant,
The old man last night, stooped and bent,
His Toby dog, their singular intent,
Looking for clues in dead leaves as they went
Unseeing us.
It was an intimation of a lagging universe
In parallel with ours, behind, but nothing worse.
Was he the shade of Sherlock Holmes living out the curse
Of the evil Professor Moriarty, or the reverse,
Whatever that might be?
Yes I know that Holmes and Moriarty fell in thrall
Locked in murderous embrace down Reichenbach fall.
But what was it that prompted me to call
His dog Toby when I didn't know at all
That was his name?
Whose name? scoffs Pliny.
Sherlock Holmes' dog of course.
So you heard the old man call his dog Toby?
No. I described the dog as a Toby dog in "Dog", before I knew it was the name of Sherlock Holmes' dog. A coincidence too unlikely to ignore.
How is it that you knew about Professor Moriarty and the Reichenbach falls, but you didn't know
that Holmes' dog was called Toby?
How is it that you are being so irritating? Anyone would think that you were Sherlock Holmes himself. If you must know, I did some research after I got home.
And then you made the whole thing up, about who he was.
Yes, at this stage I suppose you could say so. But you have not heard poem number three, where I see him again, and he sees me.
Alright. I say. It's called "Sequel". And listen out for the interesting rhyme scheme.
I turn the page, and begin to read:
Sequel.
I think I know now what that vision meant,
The old man last night, stooped and bent,
His Toby dog, their singular intent,
Looking for clues in dead leaves as they went
Unseeing us.
It was an intimation of a lagging universe
In parallel with ours, behind, but nothing worse.
Was he the shade of Sherlock Holmes living out the curse
Of the evil Professor Moriarty, or the reverse,
Whatever that might be?
Yes I know that Holmes and Moriarty fell in thrall
Locked in murderous embrace down Reichenbach fall.
But what was it that prompted me to call
His dog Toby when I didn't know at all
That was his name?
Whose name? scoffs Pliny.
Sherlock Holmes' dog of course.
So you heard the old man call his dog Toby?
No. I described the dog as a Toby dog in "Dog", before I knew it was the name of Sherlock Holmes' dog. A coincidence too unlikely to ignore.
How is it that you knew about Professor Moriarty and the Reichenbach falls, but you didn't know
that Holmes' dog was called Toby?
How is it that you are being so irritating? Anyone would think that you were Sherlock Holmes himself. If you must know, I did some research after I got home.
And then you made the whole thing up, about who he was.
Yes, at this stage I suppose you could say so. But you have not heard poem number three, where I see him again, and he sees me.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Mysterious Encounter - Part 1
You met Sherlock Holmes! says Pliny the Elder. Impossible!
Not impossible, I say, staring hard at him. I'm almost one hundred per cent sure it was him.
Almost! says Pliny.
Well he was very old, but let me tell you how it happened and how I became convinced he was Sherlock Holmes.
I'm listening, says Pliny.
First I must go and find the book of poems that I wrote ten years ago, because that is where the encounter is recorded, I tell him.
I go away. I return with an old stained brown-paper-covered exercise book. I open the book.
Here we are, I say. Written on the thirteenth of June, in the year 2000. It's called "Dog". I called it "Dog", because at the time I wrote this poem I was unaware of the identity of the old man.
Read it to me, says Pliny.
I read:
Dog
A bent old man with a Toby dog
On a cold frosty night walk
Shuffles slowly, feeling the path with a stick,
Shepherding the dog through the dead leaves.
We pass him; and do not talk;
I perform an oblique stare.
If he looks at me I'll say.....
I'll say Good evening, and smile.
He looks down at his dog, all the while
Of our passing
And I look away.
That, says Pliny, doesn't prove anything. And it isn't even very good.
Wait, Pliny, I say. It is only part one of three. I see him again. As for your saying that it isn't any good, I think you may well change your mind.
Not impossible, I say, staring hard at him. I'm almost one hundred per cent sure it was him.
Almost! says Pliny.
Well he was very old, but let me tell you how it happened and how I became convinced he was Sherlock Holmes.
I'm listening, says Pliny.
First I must go and find the book of poems that I wrote ten years ago, because that is where the encounter is recorded, I tell him.
I go away. I return with an old stained brown-paper-covered exercise book. I open the book.
Here we are, I say. Written on the thirteenth of June, in the year 2000. It's called "Dog". I called it "Dog", because at the time I wrote this poem I was unaware of the identity of the old man.
Read it to me, says Pliny.
I read:
Dog
A bent old man with a Toby dog
On a cold frosty night walk
Shuffles slowly, feeling the path with a stick,
Shepherding the dog through the dead leaves.
We pass him; and do not talk;
I perform an oblique stare.
If he looks at me I'll say.....
I'll say Good evening, and smile.
He looks down at his dog, all the while
Of our passing
And I look away.
That, says Pliny, doesn't prove anything. And it isn't even very good.
Wait, Pliny, I say. It is only part one of three. I see him again. As for your saying that it isn't any good, I think you may well change your mind.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
A Third Example
I think I get the idea now, says Pliny. Have you a third example? It's always a clincher to have three.
I do, I reply. In fact I probably have more than three. But I'm not sure why we're even talking about this. It's not that grand an idea really, and you were the one who triggered it off.
Then perhaps I am the third example, says Pliny.
I do, I reply. In fact I probably have more than three. But I'm not sure why we're even talking about this. It's not that grand an idea really, and you were the one who triggered it off.
Then perhaps I am the third example, says Pliny.
No you aren't, I say firmly. Here is a third example for you, since you want one.
There is a silence.
Go on, says Pliny.
I'm thinking, I say. There are so many. ( But in fact I haven't thought of even one).
At last it comes to me.
Well, Pliny, every time I walk down that quiet leafy street behind Marryatville High School, the one that leads to the wooden bridge over the creek, I think of Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes! exclaims Pliny. The man I admire most in modern times! Why do you think of him?
Because, I say mysteriously, I met him there, three times.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Now Voyager
You probably don't get it, Pliny, because you don't know Conrad's Heart Of Darkness. It's a very famous book.
What is it about? asks Pliny.
Colonialism, good and evil, boats. Conrad compares England in Africa to the Romans in Britain.
That's interesting, says Pliny. Tell me more.
No, Pliny, you must read it yourself. You will find the famous quote, Mistah Kurtz, he dead, there.
Well, says Pliny. This other Mr Kurtz, the real estate man, is he dead?
No, I don't think so. If he were, he wouldn't need an office.
Then I still don't get it, says Pliny.
I'm just pointing out, Pliny, sometimes something reminds us of another thing, time and time again.
Ah! says Pliny. Like that big yellow M at the end of your road. It always reminds me of hamburgers.
No, not like that! The big M reminds everybody of hamburgers. I'm talking about more idiosyncratic types of things. For example, every time I go down Magill Road, I pass a boat in a driveway, and the boat is called Voyager, and every time I see it I think: Now Voyager.
Ah! says Pliny. That film with Bette Davis!
You know it?
Oh Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon! We have the stars.
Oh yes! I remember.
What is it about? asks Pliny.
Colonialism, good and evil, boats. Conrad compares England in Africa to the Romans in Britain.
That's interesting, says Pliny. Tell me more.
No, Pliny, you must read it yourself. You will find the famous quote, Mistah Kurtz, he dead, there.
Well, says Pliny. This other Mr Kurtz, the real estate man, is he dead?
No, I don't think so. If he were, he wouldn't need an office.
Then I still don't get it, says Pliny.
I'm just pointing out, Pliny, sometimes something reminds us of another thing, time and time again.
Ah! says Pliny. Like that big yellow M at the end of your road. It always reminds me of hamburgers.
No, not like that! The big M reminds everybody of hamburgers. I'm talking about more idiosyncratic types of things. For example, every time I go down Magill Road, I pass a boat in a driveway, and the boat is called Voyager, and every time I see it I think: Now Voyager.
Ah! says Pliny. That film with Bette Davis!
You know it?
Oh Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon! We have the stars.
Oh yes! I remember.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Heart of Darkness
Alas! I did not notice that my last blog post was my 500th. What would I have done? I don't know. Now for blog post 501.
Sigh..
What's the matter? asks Pliny the Elder.
I missed my 500th blog post, I reply, looking miserable.
What do you mean you missed it? says Pliny. You wrote one, didn't you? A fine piece of impressionist writing if I recall, about what it was like in Norwood the day after the election.
Did you really think it was fine? I ask hopefully.
Yes, says Pliny, definitely fine. And now you must get on with blog post 501.
You're right, Pliny, I say. But I have lost my sense of continuity.
Try going back to Norwood, suggests Pliny helpfully. You went there today, didn't you?
Yes, I did.
And what happened?
What always happens. When I go past Geoff Kurtze's Real Estate I always read his sign, which says Geoff Kurtze Real Estate.
And what happens then?
I think: Mistah Kurtz, he dead.
Astonishing. Why?
I don't know. It isn't even spelled the same.
As what?
As Kurtz.
I see. Am I missing something?
No, the name is.
What?
Missing an E.
No, says Pliny. I'm sorry. I don't get it. Did anything else happen?
Sigh..
What's the matter? asks Pliny the Elder.
I missed my 500th blog post, I reply, looking miserable.
What do you mean you missed it? says Pliny. You wrote one, didn't you? A fine piece of impressionist writing if I recall, about what it was like in Norwood the day after the election.
Did you really think it was fine? I ask hopefully.
Yes, says Pliny, definitely fine. And now you must get on with blog post 501.
You're right, Pliny, I say. But I have lost my sense of continuity.
Try going back to Norwood, suggests Pliny helpfully. You went there today, didn't you?
Yes, I did.
And what happened?
What always happens. When I go past Geoff Kurtze's Real Estate I always read his sign, which says Geoff Kurtze Real Estate.
And what happens then?
I think: Mistah Kurtz, he dead.
Astonishing. Why?
I don't know. It isn't even spelled the same.
As what?
As Kurtz.
I see. Am I missing something?
No, the name is.
What?
Missing an E.
No, says Pliny. I'm sorry. I don't get it. Did anything else happen?
Saturday, March 20, 2010
post election morning - norwood
the sky is a sunny cloudless blue the roads dry after last night's rain
the little cottages on beulah road their wooden verandahs where bicycles vie with potted shrubs and wrought iron whatsits and pink crepe myrtles in the gardens and frangipanis
the discount shop is opening a girl puts white plastic boxes outside smiles and says good morning
a long time waiting at the portrush lights
on the parade an old man in a gopher on the footpath beep-beeps and passes us saying thanks
later we catch him up
people sit outside cibo's drinking lattes frappes capuccinos and baby capuccinos picking at cakes
all is as it is
but vini's gone
portrush-beulah crossing is a danger for pedestrians
and so is magill road
the little cottages on beulah road their wooden verandahs where bicycles vie with potted shrubs and wrought iron whatsits and pink crepe myrtles in the gardens and frangipanis
the discount shop is opening a girl puts white plastic boxes outside smiles and says good morning
a long time waiting at the portrush lights
on the parade an old man in a gopher on the footpath beep-beeps and passes us saying thanks
later we catch him up
people sit outside cibo's drinking lattes frappes capuccinos and baby capuccinos picking at cakes
all is as it is
but vini's gone
portrush-beulah crossing is a danger for pedestrians
and so is magill road
Friday, March 19, 2010
Election Day - Sticking With Vini
Who possesses this electorate?
Vini, who rolls around it diurnally
On a bicycle?
Or Steven Marshall, newcomer
Who is very keen to get in?
False question, for this electorate
Belongs to no man
Or woman either
And all that happens here
Would happen anyway.
But that is not to say
We should not have got up earlier
This morning.
For Steven Marshall pipped us at the post
And got his corflutes up
Taking all the best spots
Near the polling booth
Leaving us only the mesh fence
Behind the carpark.
The cunning bastard.
(Apologies to Norman MacCaig, whose poem, A Man in Assynt, inspired this rant)
Vini, who rolls around it diurnally
On a bicycle?
Or Steven Marshall, newcomer
Who is very keen to get in?
False question, for this electorate
Belongs to no man
Or woman either
And all that happens here
Would happen anyway.
But that is not to say
We should not have got up earlier
This morning.
For Steven Marshall pipped us at the post
And got his corflutes up
Taking all the best spots
Near the polling booth
Leaving us only the mesh fence
Behind the carpark.
The cunning bastard.
(Apologies to Norman MacCaig, whose poem, A Man in Assynt, inspired this rant)
Schumann's Birthday
Who's that sitting in the front row of the Elder Hall at the Lunch Hour Concert this afternoon?
Why, it's Chopin! And who's that sitting beside him? Why, it's Robert Schumann! I didn't know they were friends. Let's crane forward and listen to what they're saying.
Frederic Chopin: So it's your two hundredth birthday this week. Congratulations!
Robert Schumann: Hold on Frederic. It's not my two hundredth birthday until June.
Frederic Chopin: Tell me about it. It was mine last week, according to them.
Robert Schumann: What do you mean, them?
Frederic Chopin: The program notes. Here have a look at 'em.
Robert Schumann: ( reads ) Da de da de da ........ hey, this is all about you! I thought they were playing my Fantasiestucke!
Frederic Chopin: They are. Don't get your trousers in a twist! Read on.
Robert Schumann: ( reads) Da de da.... Hey this is all about Brahms!
Frederic Chopin: Keep going keep going! This bit at the bottom is about you.
Robert Schumann; ( reads ) It is poignant to recall that during his last years, spent in the confinement of a private asylum, Clara was unable to visit him until he had been there for two and a half years. Her visit, when it came was only two days before his death. By a curious twist of fate, Clara was not actually present at the moment of her husband's death, for the simple reason that she had left the asylum to meet and greet an old friend. Oh! Oh! How sad and lonely was my passing!
Frederic Chopin: Dear friend! Had you forgotten?
Robert Schumann: Dear friend! What sort of friend are you? I had forgotten!
Frederic Chopin: ( laughing and coughing into his handkerchief ) : Ha ha! Cough! cough !
Why, it's Chopin! And who's that sitting beside him? Why, it's Robert Schumann! I didn't know they were friends. Let's crane forward and listen to what they're saying.
Frederic Chopin: So it's your two hundredth birthday this week. Congratulations!
Robert Schumann: Hold on Frederic. It's not my two hundredth birthday until June.
Frederic Chopin: Tell me about it. It was mine last week, according to them.
Robert Schumann: What do you mean, them?
Frederic Chopin: The program notes. Here have a look at 'em.
Robert Schumann: ( reads ) Da de da de da ........ hey, this is all about you! I thought they were playing my Fantasiestucke!
Frederic Chopin: They are. Don't get your trousers in a twist! Read on.
Robert Schumann: ( reads) Da de da.... Hey this is all about Brahms!
Frederic Chopin: Keep going keep going! This bit at the bottom is about you.
Robert Schumann; ( reads ) It is poignant to recall that during his last years, spent in the confinement of a private asylum, Clara was unable to visit him until he had been there for two and a half years. Her visit, when it came was only two days before his death. By a curious twist of fate, Clara was not actually present at the moment of her husband's death, for the simple reason that she had left the asylum to meet and greet an old friend. Oh! Oh! How sad and lonely was my passing!
Frederic Chopin: Dear friend! Had you forgotten?
Robert Schumann: Dear friend! What sort of friend are you? I had forgotten!
Frederic Chopin: ( laughing and coughing into his handkerchief ) : Ha ha! Cough! cough !
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
On Granite
Following a series of events, I found myself on Granite Island yesterday, much in the same way that one finds onself in a recurring dream, that is different every time.
Here we are, having walked ahead of the Horse Drawn Tram, having passed the Penguin Interpretive Centre, and the surrounding penguin habitat, having climbed over several large granites beyond the kiosk and restaurant to observe the spray, having eaten icecreams with our friends, having left them to wait for the tram to return, here we are, having climbed the steep wooden steps to the first platform and the first grand ocean view, where I want to begin.
I look down. I see an old Ngarringeri man standing on the rocks below. He is looking out for whales and penguins and seals. I don't see the old man. I am reading this on an interpretive sign. I think about the old man.
It is hot. We walk the dirt trail on the ocean side of the Island. Below us, the ocean is blue and green, smashing and swirling white spray over the rocks like a washing machine. But we are hot and sweaty. We drink some warm bottled tap water, and keep walking. The vegetation is low. Waxy green shrubs, salt bush and feathery rabbit tail grasses, low broken pines, their scent mingled with that of invisible penguins.
At the far end of the island a man sits on Umbrella Rock, arms outstretched. A bi-plane flies overhead. His companion takes a photograph.
On the lee side of the island it's even warmer, and the scent of pines is strong. There used to be kangaroos here. We have seen them. We have walked the Kaiki trail many times before, even at night, with torches.
Now we can see the Causeway, and the mainland. The path turns down towards the rocky beach. It becomes a bridge, made of concrete beams, that rattle. I'm glad I do not feel obliged to speak, and break the spell of memory.
Here we are, having walked ahead of the Horse Drawn Tram, having passed the Penguin Interpretive Centre, and the surrounding penguin habitat, having climbed over several large granites beyond the kiosk and restaurant to observe the spray, having eaten icecreams with our friends, having left them to wait for the tram to return, here we are, having climbed the steep wooden steps to the first platform and the first grand ocean view, where I want to begin.
I look down. I see an old Ngarringeri man standing on the rocks below. He is looking out for whales and penguins and seals. I don't see the old man. I am reading this on an interpretive sign. I think about the old man.
It is hot. We walk the dirt trail on the ocean side of the Island. Below us, the ocean is blue and green, smashing and swirling white spray over the rocks like a washing machine. But we are hot and sweaty. We drink some warm bottled tap water, and keep walking. The vegetation is low. Waxy green shrubs, salt bush and feathery rabbit tail grasses, low broken pines, their scent mingled with that of invisible penguins.
At the far end of the island a man sits on Umbrella Rock, arms outstretched. A bi-plane flies overhead. His companion takes a photograph.
On the lee side of the island it's even warmer, and the scent of pines is strong. There used to be kangaroos here. We have seen them. We have walked the Kaiki trail many times before, even at night, with torches.
Now we can see the Causeway, and the mainland. The path turns down towards the rocky beach. It becomes a bridge, made of concrete beams, that rattle. I'm glad I do not feel obliged to speak, and break the spell of memory.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Mortality
Hah! said Pliny the Elder. I always knew you were a woolly thinker.
That's rich coming from you, I said. Who is the person that thinks wearing a woman's breastband around his head will cure him of a headache?
I no longer hold that view, said Pliny huffily. Nowadays I prefer to rely on aspirin. And in any case it is not the same thing. You claim you believed something you knew to be false.
Up until I discovered what it was, I said. Now I no longer believe in the unilateral genderisation of dogs and cats. But if you had been a little more sympathetic I would have told you of another set of incompatible beliefs I've discovered that I hold. As it is, I don't really feel like telling you.
Then do not tell me, said Pliny, picking up a book and pretending to read.
You are just pretending to read, Pliny. You really want me to tell you, don't you.
No, said Pliny. Oh alright, yes. Tell me.
This is a very deep set of incompatible beliefs, Pliny. One morning, ten years ago, I was opening a wardrobe, to get out some clothes. It was a beautiful spring morning, and the sun was shining.
I was thinking about going on a holiday, at some undetermined time in the future. But just for a second I caught myself thinking, that at this undetermined time in the future, when I would be going on a holiday, and perhaps getting some clothes out of the wardrobe in order to pack, I would still be me, but I would be younger. And I realised that at some sub-conscious level I believed this to be true.
That you are getting younger? asked Pliny.
Not exactly, no. That I will be younger again at some time in the future.
Fascinating, said Pliny. And to some extent pathetic. But then, he added kindly, no doubt it is a form of hidden optimism, without which one might be subject to despair.
That's just what I think, Pliny. That's why I haven't tried to root it out.
But you do know you are mortal?
Of course I do. Do you?
I did. I was. But now, I'm not so sure.
That's rich coming from you, I said. Who is the person that thinks wearing a woman's breastband around his head will cure him of a headache?
I no longer hold that view, said Pliny huffily. Nowadays I prefer to rely on aspirin. And in any case it is not the same thing. You claim you believed something you knew to be false.
Up until I discovered what it was, I said. Now I no longer believe in the unilateral genderisation of dogs and cats. But if you had been a little more sympathetic I would have told you of another set of incompatible beliefs I've discovered that I hold. As it is, I don't really feel like telling you.
Then do not tell me, said Pliny, picking up a book and pretending to read.
You are just pretending to read, Pliny. You really want me to tell you, don't you.
No, said Pliny. Oh alright, yes. Tell me.
This is a very deep set of incompatible beliefs, Pliny. One morning, ten years ago, I was opening a wardrobe, to get out some clothes. It was a beautiful spring morning, and the sun was shining.
I was thinking about going on a holiday, at some undetermined time in the future. But just for a second I caught myself thinking, that at this undetermined time in the future, when I would be going on a holiday, and perhaps getting some clothes out of the wardrobe in order to pack, I would still be me, but I would be younger. And I realised that at some sub-conscious level I believed this to be true.
That you are getting younger? asked Pliny.
Not exactly, no. That I will be younger again at some time in the future.
Fascinating, said Pliny. And to some extent pathetic. But then, he added kindly, no doubt it is a form of hidden optimism, without which one might be subject to despair.
That's just what I think, Pliny. That's why I haven't tried to root it out.
But you do know you are mortal?
Of course I do. Do you?
I did. I was. But now, I'm not so sure.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Nature of Belief
I was in the Post Office this afternoon, waiting in the queue, idly looking at the gifts on display in the ten dollar sale box, when the cat and dog wallets caught my eye.
All the cat wallets were pink, with a photo of a cute cat in a shopping bag on the front. These were girl wallets. All the dog wallets were blue, with a photo of a cute golden retriever puppy with an upturned blue bowl on his head. These were boy wallets.
I remembered that I used to think that all cats were girls, and all dogs were boys. You may think that is understandable in a small child. But what if I were to tell you that I believed this until I was thirty five?
Yes, we had family pets, and so did our neighbours. Of course I knew cats and dogs came in both kinds. But that was just knowledge. It wasn't until I was thirty five that I was lying in bed one night, thinking, or perhaps I was dream-thinking, about cats and dogs, and that if all dogs were boys and if all cats were girls, how could they possibly mate? I woke up, shocked to discover what I'd believed.
I wonder what else I don't know I believe?
All the cat wallets were pink, with a photo of a cute cat in a shopping bag on the front. These were girl wallets. All the dog wallets were blue, with a photo of a cute golden retriever puppy with an upturned blue bowl on his head. These were boy wallets.
I remembered that I used to think that all cats were girls, and all dogs were boys. You may think that is understandable in a small child. But what if I were to tell you that I believed this until I was thirty five?
Yes, we had family pets, and so did our neighbours. Of course I knew cats and dogs came in both kinds. But that was just knowledge. It wasn't until I was thirty five that I was lying in bed one night, thinking, or perhaps I was dream-thinking, about cats and dogs, and that if all dogs were boys and if all cats were girls, how could they possibly mate? I woke up, shocked to discover what I'd believed.
I wonder what else I don't know I believe?
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Science
That was an excellent show, David, said the VeloDrone, on his return from the Royal Institution. You would have enjoyed it. He waved a small red and black cardboard packet under the nose of his friend.
What's that? said Le Bon David, peering at the packet.
Hee hee! It's a condom. And guess how much liquid it can hold without bursting?
Vello! Don't be so vulgar! Where on earth have you been?
I've been to a cabaret at the Royal Intitution. It was called Pre-Coital, The Science of Dating. Our last free ticket for the Fringe. It was my turn to go, wasn't it?
Yes it was. And by the sound of it, I am the lucky one. But tell me, Science and Dating. What has one got to do with the other?
Exactly! What has one person got to do with the other? It was science, with plenty of singing and dancing and comedy thrown in.
That doesn't sound like science!
But it was. I learned the odds of meeting my perfect mate. I learned about the biology and evolution of physical attraction. I learned about pheromones and emotions, and had a lesson in condom physics and sperm counts.
Hence the condom.
Indeed. It holds a litre without breaking. Would you like me to show you?
No, Vello, I wouldn't.
What's that? said Le Bon David, peering at the packet.
Hee hee! It's a condom. And guess how much liquid it can hold without bursting?
Vello! Don't be so vulgar! Where on earth have you been?
I've been to a cabaret at the Royal Intitution. It was called Pre-Coital, The Science of Dating. Our last free ticket for the Fringe. It was my turn to go, wasn't it?
Yes it was. And by the sound of it, I am the lucky one. But tell me, Science and Dating. What has one got to do with the other?
Exactly! What has one person got to do with the other? It was science, with plenty of singing and dancing and comedy thrown in.
That doesn't sound like science!
But it was. I learned the odds of meeting my perfect mate. I learned about the biology and evolution of physical attraction. I learned about pheromones and emotions, and had a lesson in condom physics and sperm counts.
Hence the condom.
Indeed. It holds a litre without breaking. Would you like me to show you?
No, Vello, I wouldn't.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Fait Accompli
Let us join Pliny and her mum, who are going to the first Lunch Hour Concert of the semester.
They meet in David Jones, near some weird knitted jerkins. Look at this one, says Pliny's mum. Wouldn't it be lovely and warm! Pliny, in spite of feeling rather hot, agrees.
They decide to have lunch at the Adelaide University Staff Club, so they hurry across the road, and down the steps on the wrong side of the Elder Hall. Careful of the steps. They enter the brown professorial ambience of the staff club and order a sandwich. They carry the sandwiches over to the bar to order a drink. Now their hands are full and they know that they won't be able to open the door to the patio. They wait until someone is going out and trust that he will not let the door go in their faces as another old gentleman once did. He doesn't. Outside, they sit under an umbrella and try to stop their paper doilies from blowing away in the wind. They do.
At last they are at the concert sitting in their seats. The hall is packed. Some fool has advertised it on the radio. Kristian Chong is playing Chopin nocturnes on the piano. Chopin is 200 years old this month, and still going strong. He writes a good nocturne. Kristian wears a long black coat and plays expressively, sensitively, romantically, sending us into a nocturnal trance. From there it is not far to fall into a state of sleep which most of us do, in various positions. Head up, head down, head lolling to one side.
It is seven dollars for a Chopin-induced kip, in a beautiful and acoustically perfect hall. Not bad value we think. We awake refreshed. We exit through the side doors and down the steps. Hearing jets in the sky, we look up. It is the Clipsal 500 jets. We sit down and watch the jets doing tricks in the sky. We haven't even paid for this. It's good.
Then we go back across King William Street to the card shop under David Jones. It is Ashley's birthday soon. She will be 12. She likes horses. Pliny's mum chooses a black card with a gold Pegasus on the front. I don't think I could do better than this, she says. You could, thinks Pliny, it's black.
Lastly they go to a chemist to get a prescription filled for Pliny's mum. While they are waiting Pliny's mum goes off to look at corn plasters. Pliny looks at fake designer sunnies. She sees a pair she likes. They have silver snake hinges and Chinese tiger sides. She decides to buy them. Rather than ask her mum's opinion she presents her with a fait accompli.
They meet in David Jones, near some weird knitted jerkins. Look at this one, says Pliny's mum. Wouldn't it be lovely and warm! Pliny, in spite of feeling rather hot, agrees.
They decide to have lunch at the Adelaide University Staff Club, so they hurry across the road, and down the steps on the wrong side of the Elder Hall. Careful of the steps. They enter the brown professorial ambience of the staff club and order a sandwich. They carry the sandwiches over to the bar to order a drink. Now their hands are full and they know that they won't be able to open the door to the patio. They wait until someone is going out and trust that he will not let the door go in their faces as another old gentleman once did. He doesn't. Outside, they sit under an umbrella and try to stop their paper doilies from blowing away in the wind. They do.
At last they are at the concert sitting in their seats. The hall is packed. Some fool has advertised it on the radio. Kristian Chong is playing Chopin nocturnes on the piano. Chopin is 200 years old this month, and still going strong. He writes a good nocturne. Kristian wears a long black coat and plays expressively, sensitively, romantically, sending us into a nocturnal trance. From there it is not far to fall into a state of sleep which most of us do, in various positions. Head up, head down, head lolling to one side.
It is seven dollars for a Chopin-induced kip, in a beautiful and acoustically perfect hall. Not bad value we think. We awake refreshed. We exit through the side doors and down the steps. Hearing jets in the sky, we look up. It is the Clipsal 500 jets. We sit down and watch the jets doing tricks in the sky. We haven't even paid for this. It's good.
Then we go back across King William Street to the card shop under David Jones. It is Ashley's birthday soon. She will be 12. She likes horses. Pliny's mum chooses a black card with a gold Pegasus on the front. I don't think I could do better than this, she says. You could, thinks Pliny, it's black.
Lastly they go to a chemist to get a prescription filled for Pliny's mum. While they are waiting Pliny's mum goes off to look at corn plasters. Pliny looks at fake designer sunnies. She sees a pair she likes. They have silver snake hinges and Chinese tiger sides. She decides to buy them. Rather than ask her mum's opinion she presents her with a fait accompli.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Doctor Brown Behaves
Le Bon David was feeling a little uncomfortable. He was sitting in the front row, and Doctor Brown was beginning to misbehave.
He had already forced David to take a bite of his banana, and lick an indeterminate substance from a very large spoon.
Now he seemed to be inviting him to get up and dance. David knew that at perfomances such as these it was better to play along. He stood up graciously and allowed himself to be waltzed on the spot in front of his seat. But when Doctor Brown tried to gve him a big smoochy kiss, David drew the line, and sat down. Wait till I tell Vello about this, he thought. He won't believe it.
Now Doctor Brown had produced a Princess magazine. He read out a line, then asked the audience a simple question. No one was willing to chance a reply. David, finding the wait intolerable, called out the answer. Doctor Brown threw a green olive at him. I must not answer any more questions, thought David, no matter how much I feel impelled.
Doctor Brown, having thrown dripping handfuls of green olives at various members of the audience and driven three of them out of the room, decided to do some puppetry. Oh good, thought David, I do like puppetry. And he craned forward in his seat. But Doctor Brown's puppets were invisible. No matter how intricately he appeared to be manipulating them, David could see nothing but Doctor Brown's patterned trousers in the space where he was directed to look.
For an empiricist, it was thoroughly confusing.
He had already forced David to take a bite of his banana, and lick an indeterminate substance from a very large spoon.
Now he seemed to be inviting him to get up and dance. David knew that at perfomances such as these it was better to play along. He stood up graciously and allowed himself to be waltzed on the spot in front of his seat. But when Doctor Brown tried to gve him a big smoochy kiss, David drew the line, and sat down. Wait till I tell Vello about this, he thought. He won't believe it.
Now Doctor Brown had produced a Princess magazine. He read out a line, then asked the audience a simple question. No one was willing to chance a reply. David, finding the wait intolerable, called out the answer. Doctor Brown threw a green olive at him. I must not answer any more questions, thought David, no matter how much I feel impelled.
Doctor Brown, having thrown dripping handfuls of green olives at various members of the audience and driven three of them out of the room, decided to do some puppetry. Oh good, thought David, I do like puppetry. And he craned forward in his seat. But Doctor Brown's puppets were invisible. No matter how intricately he appeared to be manipulating them, David could see nothing but Doctor Brown's patterned trousers in the space where he was directed to look.
For an empiricist, it was thoroughly confusing.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Necessary to Invent
The VeloDrone parted the tent flaps dramatically, entered, sat down on a camp stool and demanded a cup of tea.
A cup of tea, David, please! Oh what a night!
I take it you've been to see the Red Bastard, said Le Bon David, getting up to put on the kettle.
Yes, said The VeloDrone. What an extremely rude little red goblin he is. I presume you knew?
Yes, Vello, I read some reviews. Did he insult you?
He insulted everyone! He had us dancing to his tune, changing seats and striking foolish poses at his say-so. And then he started asking personal questions. What is your dream? Why haven't you achieved your dream? Why do you do what you're told?
What's wrong with that, Vello? These are the sorts of questions we philosophers ask ourselves almost every day.
I know. I know. That's why I'm cross. He didn't ask me my dream.
Your dream? What was your dream?
You know very well, David, that I have always wanted to be an archaeologist.
Oh yes, that dream. What difference would it have made whether he asked you or not?
If he had asked me, I would have answered that I had always wanted to be an archaeologist, and then he would have asked me why I wasn't an archaeologist and that's where it would have got interesting.
Why?
Because I would have said that had I become an archaeologist, my dream would undoubtedly be to become a philosopher, which is what, in fact, I am.
Well, done Vello! That would have set him thinking. And everyone else there as well. Never mind. Here's your cup of tea. Will you be writing a review?
Yes, David. I think I shall begin: If the Red Bastard did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.
A cup of tea, David, please! Oh what a night!
I take it you've been to see the Red Bastard, said Le Bon David, getting up to put on the kettle.
Yes, said The VeloDrone. What an extremely rude little red goblin he is. I presume you knew?
Yes, Vello, I read some reviews. Did he insult you?
He insulted everyone! He had us dancing to his tune, changing seats and striking foolish poses at his say-so. And then he started asking personal questions. What is your dream? Why haven't you achieved your dream? Why do you do what you're told?
What's wrong with that, Vello? These are the sorts of questions we philosophers ask ourselves almost every day.
I know. I know. That's why I'm cross. He didn't ask me my dream.
Your dream? What was your dream?
You know very well, David, that I have always wanted to be an archaeologist.
Oh yes, that dream. What difference would it have made whether he asked you or not?
If he had asked me, I would have answered that I had always wanted to be an archaeologist, and then he would have asked me why I wasn't an archaeologist and that's where it would have got interesting.
Why?
Because I would have said that had I become an archaeologist, my dream would undoubtedly be to become a philosopher, which is what, in fact, I am.
Well, done Vello! That would have set him thinking. And everyone else there as well. Never mind. Here's your cup of tea. Will you be writing a review?
Yes, David. I think I shall begin: If the Red Bastard did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Eric's Tales of the Sea
You look a little peaky, David, said The VeloDrone. Did you have a late night?
Not all that late, said Le Bon David. But I am exhausted from going up and down the stairs in the Ambassadors Hotel.
Why did you have to do that?
Because the performance was upstairs, and I went up the stairs several times to see if it was beginning.
Why didn't you just stay up there?
A young lady asked me to go down again. So I went down. Then I saw some other people going up. So after a while, I went back up. But they were just standing on the landing. So I went back down again and had a glass of wine.
Good idea. And how was the show? I assume it started eventually.
You would not have liked it, Vello, for it was all about submariners and their lives. And I know that you are nothing if not a landlubber. But I enjoyed it very much indeed. It brought back memories of my own time spent at sea.
You! When did you go to sea, David?
I went to France, remember. I sailed there, I stayed a year or two, and I sailed back again. With Rousseau in tow. He was not a good sailor. But I had no trouble at all.
I see. That sounds as much a tale of the sailing life as your going up and down the stairs. Well, tell me more about the show. Was it funny?
Yes, funny, but more than that. Eric's tales were rivetting. He escaped many dangers, including
death by practicing how to escape from a submarine, being eaten by sharks, being run in for getting back late from shore leave, being tricked into performing an embarrassing act, and killing his best friend. Well, no, he didn't escape that second to last one, but all the others he escaped.
David, I don't know why you think I wouldn't have liked it. I love daring escapes.
They were not daring, they were lucky.
I love lucky escapes too.
Well then Vello, you are about to hear of another one.
What?
Tonight is your turn to go to a show, right?
Right. I'm going to see Red Bastard. What is the lucky escape?
Mine, Vello. Because I am not.
Not all that late, said Le Bon David. But I am exhausted from going up and down the stairs in the Ambassadors Hotel.
Why did you have to do that?
Because the performance was upstairs, and I went up the stairs several times to see if it was beginning.
Why didn't you just stay up there?
A young lady asked me to go down again. So I went down. Then I saw some other people going up. So after a while, I went back up. But they were just standing on the landing. So I went back down again and had a glass of wine.
Good idea. And how was the show? I assume it started eventually.
You would not have liked it, Vello, for it was all about submariners and their lives. And I know that you are nothing if not a landlubber. But I enjoyed it very much indeed. It brought back memories of my own time spent at sea.
You! When did you go to sea, David?
I went to France, remember. I sailed there, I stayed a year or two, and I sailed back again. With Rousseau in tow. He was not a good sailor. But I had no trouble at all.
I see. That sounds as much a tale of the sailing life as your going up and down the stairs. Well, tell me more about the show. Was it funny?
Yes, funny, but more than that. Eric's tales were rivetting. He escaped many dangers, including
death by practicing how to escape from a submarine, being eaten by sharks, being run in for getting back late from shore leave, being tricked into performing an embarrassing act, and killing his best friend. Well, no, he didn't escape that second to last one, but all the others he escaped.
David, I don't know why you think I wouldn't have liked it. I love daring escapes.
They were not daring, they were lucky.
I love lucky escapes too.
Well then Vello, you are about to hear of another one.
What?
Tonight is your turn to go to a show, right?
Right. I'm going to see Red Bastard. What is the lucky escape?
Mine, Vello. Because I am not.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Like Rain
Sunday afternoon. Hove. We're walking northwards along the beach. It's sunny and warm, but it looks like rain. It looks mightily like rain.
The sky over the water is black as squid ink. Dark static drifts fall onto the sea. Above us the clouds are a jigsaw of black, grey and white, with gaps where the blue sky shows through. The sea is glowing fit to burst its gelatinous skin, a silver line on the horizon the fragile string that holds it in.
Sunlit patches gleam in shifting rows of golden herringbones, then disappear and surface somewhere else. Where waves are breaking the sea is pink and white and brown and mucilaginous like a bucket of beaten octopus and squid. There is a rush, a sound of swallowing, and soft ticks.
On the sand, heaps of seagrass, and leaves from far off trees, broken scallop shells like stiff pink fish, midden heaps and stones.
It looks like rain. It looks mightily like rain. But it doesn't rain. We sit eating icecreams in the sun.
The sky over the water is black as squid ink. Dark static drifts fall onto the sea. Above us the clouds are a jigsaw of black, grey and white, with gaps where the blue sky shows through. The sea is glowing fit to burst its gelatinous skin, a silver line on the horizon the fragile string that holds it in.
Sunlit patches gleam in shifting rows of golden herringbones, then disappear and surface somewhere else. Where waves are breaking the sea is pink and white and brown and mucilaginous like a bucket of beaten octopus and squid. There is a rush, a sound of swallowing, and soft ticks.
On the sand, heaps of seagrass, and leaves from far off trees, broken scallop shells like stiff pink fish, midden heaps and stones.
It looks like rain. It looks mightily like rain. But it doesn't rain. We sit eating icecreams in the sun.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
More Smarties at Home
Would you like a Smartie? I asked Pliny the Elder, waving a plastic bag in front of his nose.
No, thank you, said Pliny, peering into the bag. There aren't any red ones.
Aren't there? I said, affecting surprise.
And they don't look like real Smarties, added Pliny.
They're not. It was a trick question. If you'd said no, I would have asked you if you'd like one of these.
But I did say no.
Yes, and then you offered an opinion which rendered my next question redundant.
I am sorry. And what if I'd said yes?
I didn't expect you to say yes.
I would have said yes, had there been any red ones.
You would? But I thought you had read my poem. I thought it had set you off wondering in what sense the Smarties were real. I thought you had pretty much decided that they were fake Smarties, with a real existence. And I thought that you had been looking for them. And found them. And eaten all the red ones.
No, said Pliny, blandly. You have imagined all that.
No, thank you, said Pliny, peering into the bag. There aren't any red ones.
Aren't there? I said, affecting surprise.
And they don't look like real Smarties, added Pliny.
They're not. It was a trick question. If you'd said no, I would have asked you if you'd like one of these.
But I did say no.
Yes, and then you offered an opinion which rendered my next question redundant.
I am sorry. And what if I'd said yes?
I didn't expect you to say yes.
I would have said yes, had there been any red ones.
You would? But I thought you had read my poem. I thought it had set you off wondering in what sense the Smarties were real. I thought you had pretty much decided that they were fake Smarties, with a real existence. And I thought that you had been looking for them. And found them. And eaten all the red ones.
No, said Pliny, blandly. You have imagined all that.
Not as Nice
That is a very strange poem, thought Pliny the Elder, upon reading it. Was it that the Smarties had no substance, or was it merely that they were not real Smarties?
He remembered eating Smarties that were not real Smarties. He had come across them inside a chocolate Easter egg, and they had not been as nice as Smarties.
The reason for the not-being-as-niceness was, if he remembered rightly, that the hard shell around the chocolate button had not dissolved in his mouth in the expected way, but cracked into tiny sharp pieces, and that the chocolate, when he had recovered from the shock of that, had been of an inferior quality.
Nevertheless, he thought, I shall take a look around, in case there are any left.
He remembered eating Smarties that were not real Smarties. He had come across them inside a chocolate Easter egg, and they had not been as nice as Smarties.
The reason for the not-being-as-niceness was, if he remembered rightly, that the hard shell around the chocolate button had not dissolved in his mouth in the expected way, but cracked into tiny sharp pieces, and that the chocolate, when he had recovered from the shock of that, had been of an inferior quality.
Nevertheless, he thought, I shall take a look around, in case there are any left.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Smartie at Home
it's raining
i'm eating a smartie
at home
the rain came
as we left
the art gallery
we were at
an exhibition called
before and after science
it was part
of the festival of arts
it was crap
let me explain
it was basically just stuff
that artists had put there
hoping you'd see
what it meant
it's raining
i'm eating a smartie
at home
i suppose you're thinking
she takes a long time to eat one smartie.
but there's something you don't know
i've eaten six
and there's something else you don't know
they aren't real
at least i've taken the trouble to explain
and i've taken the trouble
to make it a poem
even though.......( you can finish it )
i'm eating a smartie
at home
the rain came
as we left
the art gallery
we were at
an exhibition called
before and after science
it was part
of the festival of arts
it was crap
let me explain
it was basically just stuff
that artists had put there
hoping you'd see
what it meant
it's raining
i'm eating a smartie
at home
i suppose you're thinking
she takes a long time to eat one smartie.
but there's something you don't know
i've eaten six
and there's something else you don't know
they aren't real
at least i've taken the trouble to explain
and i've taken the trouble
to make it a poem
even though.......( you can finish it )
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Mystery
It is a warm night in Adelaide. Le Bon David and The VeloDrone are discussing La Petite Mort, as they walk back to their tent in the parklands.
Le Bon David: That was not quite what I expected.
The VeloDrone: Nor I. What a peculiar sort of woman she was!
Le Bon David: Yes. A protruding tummy and rather short legs.
The VeloDrone: Steady on, David. That's a decription of you!
Le Bon David: I know I am not handsome. But nor do I get about in a flimsy red dress that emphasises all my shortcomings.
The VeloDrone: You must agree she had a pretty face, and sang well.
Le Bon David: Her voice was strong. As to her face, she grimaced and sniffed too much for me.
The VeloDrone: Perhaps she had a cold. Did you notice all those tissues she kept stuffing down her front?
Le Bon David: Yes, and she never blew her nose.
The VeloDrone: A mystery. But then, women are a mystery. Do you not agree?
Le Bon David: I never married, and women have always been a mystery to me. In Paris I was the darling of the salons, but what good did that do me? None. I was never able to grasp the nettle, so to speak.
The VeloDrone: I never married either, although I did grasp a few nettles. As a young man I tried to elope with my dear Pimpette, but was stopped by my father. For fifteen years I lived with Emilie de Breteuil, but she remained married to her marquis. Later, I had an interesting relationship with my niece......
Le Bon David: Oh I don't want to hear about it. Just as I didn't want to hear about those things tonight. Shameless. I shall not be writing a review of La Petite Mort, you may be sure.
The VeloDrone: Neither shall I. Let's forget all about it. How about we stop and pick up an extra large pizza on the way home?
Le Bon David: Oh yes, let's. And Vello...
The VeloDrone: What?
Le Bon David: Thanks for coming with me.
Le Bon David: That was not quite what I expected.
The VeloDrone: Nor I. What a peculiar sort of woman she was!
Le Bon David: Yes. A protruding tummy and rather short legs.
The VeloDrone: Steady on, David. That's a decription of you!
Le Bon David: I know I am not handsome. But nor do I get about in a flimsy red dress that emphasises all my shortcomings.
The VeloDrone: You must agree she had a pretty face, and sang well.
Le Bon David: Her voice was strong. As to her face, she grimaced and sniffed too much for me.
The VeloDrone: Perhaps she had a cold. Did you notice all those tissues she kept stuffing down her front?
Le Bon David: Yes, and she never blew her nose.
The VeloDrone: A mystery. But then, women are a mystery. Do you not agree?
Le Bon David: I never married, and women have always been a mystery to me. In Paris I was the darling of the salons, but what good did that do me? None. I was never able to grasp the nettle, so to speak.
The VeloDrone: I never married either, although I did grasp a few nettles. As a young man I tried to elope with my dear Pimpette, but was stopped by my father. For fifteen years I lived with Emilie de Breteuil, but she remained married to her marquis. Later, I had an interesting relationship with my niece......
Le Bon David: Oh I don't want to hear about it. Just as I didn't want to hear about those things tonight. Shameless. I shall not be writing a review of La Petite Mort, you may be sure.
The VeloDrone: Neither shall I. Let's forget all about it. How about we stop and pick up an extra large pizza on the way home?
Le Bon David: Oh yes, let's. And Vello...
The VeloDrone: What?
Le Bon David: Thanks for coming with me.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Ladyfingers
Le Bon David struggles through the tent flaps with several large shopping bags. He dumps them on the floor next to the camp bed on which The VeloDrone is lying, surrounded by used paper tissues.
Feeling any better? he asks.
A little, says The VeloDrone, sniffing ostentatiously.
Well now, here's the shopping. I went to the Central Market and bought all this delicious, healthy, fresh fruit and all these lovely vegetables. Look! Mangoes, three for five dollars, a ripe pineapple, sweet green sultana grapes, yellow nectarines, ladyfinger bananas, watermelon, tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini, cucumbers.....
I don't like ladyfinger bananas, grumbles The VeloDrone, I only like ordinary bananas.
Never mind, we still have two ordinary bananas left in the fruitbowl, says Le Bon David, peacably. What would you like for your dinner? I'll get it ready for you now because I'm going out later to a Fringe show.
Oh? says The VeloDrone, what is it?
It should be quite a lot of fun, Vello. It's called La Petite Mort - The Orgasm, presented by Ladies Who Lounge.
The VeloDrone perks up. Wait a minute! Isn't it my turn?
No, it certainly isn't. You went to The Chronic Ills of Robert Zimmerman, remember?
Then you went and looked at the Northern Lights!
But you came with me!
And I caught a cold.
That, dear Vello, is irrelevant. And Northern Lights is not even part of the Fringe. But I must say you are suddenly looking a lot better. Would you like to attend La Petite Mort with me? We can always go halves in a second ticket.
Yes, David, I would love to come with you. And you're right, I do feel a whole lot better. Would you be so kind as to pass me a banana?.......... No, not that one!
Feeling any better? he asks.
A little, says The VeloDrone, sniffing ostentatiously.
Well now, here's the shopping. I went to the Central Market and bought all this delicious, healthy, fresh fruit and all these lovely vegetables. Look! Mangoes, three for five dollars, a ripe pineapple, sweet green sultana grapes, yellow nectarines, ladyfinger bananas, watermelon, tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini, cucumbers.....
I don't like ladyfinger bananas, grumbles The VeloDrone, I only like ordinary bananas.
Never mind, we still have two ordinary bananas left in the fruitbowl, says Le Bon David, peacably. What would you like for your dinner? I'll get it ready for you now because I'm going out later to a Fringe show.
Oh? says The VeloDrone, what is it?
It should be quite a lot of fun, Vello. It's called La Petite Mort - The Orgasm, presented by Ladies Who Lounge.
The VeloDrone perks up. Wait a minute! Isn't it my turn?
No, it certainly isn't. You went to The Chronic Ills of Robert Zimmerman, remember?
Then you went and looked at the Northern Lights!
But you came with me!
And I caught a cold.
That, dear Vello, is irrelevant. And Northern Lights is not even part of the Fringe. But I must say you are suddenly looking a lot better. Would you like to attend La Petite Mort with me? We can always go halves in a second ticket.
Yes, David, I would love to come with you. And you're right, I do feel a whole lot better. Would you be so kind as to pass me a banana?.......... No, not that one!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Dangerous
Pliny, did you mean that in a good way?
What?
When I said it sounded dangerous, and you replied that they were French, did you mean that the French in your opinion are particularly brave, or just insane?
Well, says Pliny, as you know I spent some time in Gaul when I was a consul in the Roman Army, so I have had a longer association with the French than most. In those days they used to cut off their enemies' heads and nail them to walls or hang them from their horses' necks.
Insane, then?
No, no! Brave.
Oh, of course. So anyway, tell me what you thought of the pyrotechnical display. It sounds quite thrilling.
What?
When I said it sounded dangerous, and you replied that they were French, did you mean that the French in your opinion are particularly brave, or just insane?
Well, says Pliny, as you know I spent some time in Gaul when I was a consul in the Roman Army, so I have had a longer association with the French than most. In those days they used to cut off their enemies' heads and nail them to walls or hang them from their horses' necks.
Insane, then?
No, no! Brave.
Oh, of course. So anyway, tell me what you thought of the pyrotechnical display. It sounds quite thrilling.
It was. However I believe it was political. The Premier gave a short speech at the beginning.
Oh no! Well, you were lucky it was short. What did he say?
He said that naturally everyone would vote for him in the coming election because he delivered festivals and free fireworks displays to the people.
Come on! He didn't.
I was paraphrasing.
Ah.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Ah, the French
So, The VeloDrone has a cold, observed Pliny the Elder. I suppose that means he will be out of action for a few days. Maybe someone else can get a look in.
Oh? I said. Why? Do you have something to say?
I do, said Pliny, and it is something that you may find interesting. I myself have recently attended a Festival event.
Really! How did you afford it?
I have money, sniffed Pliny. But this event was free.
Was it the Festival opening? I asked. At the Victoria Park Racecourse?
Yes, said Pliny. And very spectacular it was. Seventy thousand people were there.
So I've heard, I said. Tell me about it.
It was dark, began Pliny. Everyone was sitting on the grass looking towards the trees. Children were amusing themselves playing with multicoloured luminous rings. There were several loud bangs. Suddenly an Alchemist appeared carrying a bucket of fire. He approached a giant tower at the top of which was a huge cauldron. He climbed the tower and set the cauldron alight. Soon there were sparks and fireballs shooting up into the sky. Three mysterious musicians played infernal music from the top of dark towers. Fireworks shot up behind the trees and smoke filled the air. Men on stilts walked the earth with gigantic catherine wheels shooting spinning sparkling brilliants all around their heads.......
Sounds dangerous, I said.
They were French, he replied.
Oh? I said. Why? Do you have something to say?
I do, said Pliny, and it is something that you may find interesting. I myself have recently attended a Festival event.
Really! How did you afford it?
I have money, sniffed Pliny. But this event was free.
Was it the Festival opening? I asked. At the Victoria Park Racecourse?
Yes, said Pliny. And very spectacular it was. Seventy thousand people were there.
So I've heard, I said. Tell me about it.
It was dark, began Pliny. Everyone was sitting on the grass looking towards the trees. Children were amusing themselves playing with multicoloured luminous rings. There were several loud bangs. Suddenly an Alchemist appeared carrying a bucket of fire. He approached a giant tower at the top of which was a huge cauldron. He climbed the tower and set the cauldron alight. Soon there were sparks and fireballs shooting up into the sky. Three mysterious musicians played infernal music from the top of dark towers. Fireworks shot up behind the trees and smoke filled the air. Men on stilts walked the earth with gigantic catherine wheels shooting spinning sparkling brilliants all around their heads.......
Sounds dangerous, I said.
They were French, he replied.
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