Pliny is writing his complaining letter. I would like to help him, but I am distracted.
Pliny: Dear Mr Healy...or do you think I should say, Greetings Mr Healy?
Me: What? I don't know....greetings .....but Pliny, look up there!
Pliny: Greetings Mr Healy.....I wish to complain about the book Natural History: A Selection, of which you are, I believe, the translator and selector.....
Me: I think you should tell him who you are ........ but Pliny, look!
Pliny: What is it?
Me: Up there in the corner of the ceiling.
Pliny: It's merely a cobweb.
Me: No it isn't. It's a hair!
Pliny: I don't have time for this.....Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pliny the Elder, author of the Natural History which you have so blatantly ......what now?
Me: How on earth could it possibly have got up there? It looks like one of mine!
Pliny: I don't know. What does it matter? Go and get the long-handled brush. You'll see it's a cobweb.
Me: ( going out and coming back with the long-handled brush) No ! See, it's stuck. It's definitely a hair.
Pliny: ....which you have blatantly pecked at, magpie-like....
Me: Hey, that's good, Pliny, magpie-like..... but Pliny, this is totally inexplicable!
Pliny: What? I suppose he was pressed for space....
Me: What? I'm talking about the hair. It's impossible for it to have floated up there and got stuck!
Pliny: It probably happened when you were standing on that blue stool getting something out of the cupboard. Now calm down and let me get on with this..........magpie-like, and ruined....
Me: ( climbing up onto the blue plastic stool ) Look Pliny! Where is my head?
Pliny: ......my reputation as a polymath....
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
What Pliny Would Rather Not Know
I see you have a new book, said Pliny the Elder. What is it called?
The People of the Book, by Geraldine Brooks, I replied, but it was my second choice.
How so? asked Pliny.
I was looking for your book.
My book?
Your book, Natural History of Pliny, in Penguin Classics.
My book! said Pliny. I didn't know it was in print.
Well it is, I said, but I haven't been able to lay my hand on a copy. You can buy it through Amazon Books but they charge a lot for postage.
I am not surprised, said Pliny. It must be quite a size.
No, it isn't . It's just a little paperback.
Pliny turned a funny shade of purple.
A little paperback! he spluttered. But I wrote thirty seven books !
I know. This is a selection of the most interesting bits.
Tch! said Pliny, crossly. I fail to see the value in a selection of the interesting bits. It is meant to be a collection of all knowledge. And who is to say which are the interesting bits? I shall write to Penguin Classics and complain.
No, don't complain. Just ask them to send you a copy. I'm sure you must be entitled to one. Then we can see which bits they think are interesting. And then you can complain.
No, said Pliny. You just want a free book. I am going to complain.
The People of the Book, by Geraldine Brooks, I replied, but it was my second choice.
How so? asked Pliny.
I was looking for your book.
My book?
Your book, Natural History of Pliny, in Penguin Classics.
My book! said Pliny. I didn't know it was in print.
Well it is, I said, but I haven't been able to lay my hand on a copy. You can buy it through Amazon Books but they charge a lot for postage.
I am not surprised, said Pliny. It must be quite a size.
No, it isn't . It's just a little paperback.
Pliny turned a funny shade of purple.
A little paperback! he spluttered. But I wrote thirty seven books !
I know. This is a selection of the most interesting bits.
Tch! said Pliny, crossly. I fail to see the value in a selection of the interesting bits. It is meant to be a collection of all knowledge. And who is to say which are the interesting bits? I shall write to Penguin Classics and complain.
No, don't complain. Just ask them to send you a copy. I'm sure you must be entitled to one. Then we can see which bits they think are interesting. And then you can complain.
No, said Pliny. You just want a free book. I am going to complain.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
What Pliny Doesn't Know
I liked your post yesterday, said Pliny the Elder. I enjoyed adding up the number of things you did not know.
How many did you come up with? I asked.
Five, said Pliny.
Five? What were they?
The banana, said Pliny. You didn't know that they had no bananas.
That's one, I said.
The photograph of the muesli with the red berries on top, said Pliny You didn't know it was out of focus until you got home.
That's two, I said.
The photograph of the man looking at the toilets, said Pliny. You couldn't find it. That makes three. And not knowing how to work the toilet buttons. Four. And finally, you didn't know whether you would be allowed out.
Well done Pliny, I said. But if you recall, the post was entitled What You Don't Know, and there are one or two things that you don't know, as well.
Obviously, said Pliny. I don't know all the details of your unpleasant experience in the toilet.
Nor do I want to, he added. Is that it?
No, I said, I have a confession to make. Remember I said the man in the photograph looked pained and disbelieving?
Yes, said Pliny. That was most descriptive. I would have liked to have seen the photograph.
If you had, I said, you would have seen that he looked completely blank. The way a man might look when he is waiting for his wife to come out of a public toilet.
You mean you made it up? said Pliny, looking shocked. Why?
Transference, I said. It was me that had felt pained and disbelieving. I made it up because it seemed right.
It's cheating, said Pliny.
What do you know? I said.
How many did you come up with? I asked.
Five, said Pliny.
Five? What were they?
The banana, said Pliny. You didn't know that they had no bananas.
That's one, I said.
The photograph of the muesli with the red berries on top, said Pliny You didn't know it was out of focus until you got home.
That's two, I said.
The photograph of the man looking at the toilets, said Pliny. You couldn't find it. That makes three. And not knowing how to work the toilet buttons. Four. And finally, you didn't know whether you would be allowed out.
Well done Pliny, I said. But if you recall, the post was entitled What You Don't Know, and there are one or two things that you don't know, as well.
Obviously, said Pliny. I don't know all the details of your unpleasant experience in the toilet.
Nor do I want to, he added. Is that it?
No, I said, I have a confession to make. Remember I said the man in the photograph looked pained and disbelieving?
Yes, said Pliny. That was most descriptive. I would have liked to have seen the photograph.
If you had, I said, you would have seen that he looked completely blank. The way a man might look when he is waiting for his wife to come out of a public toilet.
You mean you made it up? said Pliny, looking shocked. Why?
Transference, I said. It was me that had felt pained and disbelieving. I made it up because it seemed right.
It's cheating, said Pliny.
What do you know? I said.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
What You Don't Know
We had breakfast at the West Beach Surf Life Saving Club yesterday morning. I ordered muesli with banana.
Ten minutes later a girl came up to our table with a piece of paper. I'm sorry, she said, but we don't have any bananas. Would you like yogurt or berries instead?
I'd like berries, I said.
The berries were mixed, and red. My breakfast looked so beautiful I took a photograph. But when I got home the photograph was out of focus.
After our breakfast we went to the Broadway Kiosk for a cup of tea. I took some more photos in there. My favourite is looking out through the glass door towards Glenelg. I came so close to uploading it here for you to see. But I didn't know how. Correction, I knew how, but I couldn't locate the photo.
The reason I like it is this. There is a man standing outside with his arms folded, and his head turned so that he's looking directly at the toilets. He looks rather pained and disbelieving. So the photo reminds me of my experience in the toilets, a few minutes before the photo was taken, although it had nothing to do with the man.
These are automatic toilets. You press a button, the door opens, you go in, you press a button, the door closes, and a voice says YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES TO COMPLETE YOUR MISSION, then music begins to play. I won't tell you the whole story. Everything works with buttons, that's all. And some of them are in the wrong place. And if you don't complete your mission in the correct order, the toilet won't flush. Maybe they won't even let you out.
That's what you don't know.
Ten minutes later a girl came up to our table with a piece of paper. I'm sorry, she said, but we don't have any bananas. Would you like yogurt or berries instead?
I'd like berries, I said.
The berries were mixed, and red. My breakfast looked so beautiful I took a photograph. But when I got home the photograph was out of focus.
After our breakfast we went to the Broadway Kiosk for a cup of tea. I took some more photos in there. My favourite is looking out through the glass door towards Glenelg. I came so close to uploading it here for you to see. But I didn't know how. Correction, I knew how, but I couldn't locate the photo.
The reason I like it is this. There is a man standing outside with his arms folded, and his head turned so that he's looking directly at the toilets. He looks rather pained and disbelieving. So the photo reminds me of my experience in the toilets, a few minutes before the photo was taken, although it had nothing to do with the man.
These are automatic toilets. You press a button, the door opens, you go in, you press a button, the door closes, and a voice says YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES TO COMPLETE YOUR MISSION, then music begins to play. I won't tell you the whole story. Everything works with buttons, that's all. And some of them are in the wrong place. And if you don't complete your mission in the correct order, the toilet won't flush. Maybe they won't even let you out.
That's what you don't know.
What You Know
Some things, you just know.
For example, I know that all the men at the Lunch Hour Concerts who have hair will look from behind as though they are sitting in a stiff breeze, which is blowing towards the stage. It is the way their hair grows.
I was at one yesterday. The Elder Trio played Schubert, then Beethoven. It struck me that the Schubert was better than the Beethoven, probably because Beethoven was deaf.
Later in the evening I wrote in my diary: The Schubert was lovely, the Beethoven was not. Then I felt sorry for Beethoven, so I decided to draw a picture of him, and one of Schubert, side by side, and allow them a speech bubble in which to say whatever they liked.
Now, I know what Schubert looks like. He has no legs. He is just a head and shoulders. His hair is wavy and slightly receding although he is really quite young. His lips are romantic and full. He wears a soft cravat.
I also know what Beethoven looks like. He too has no legs. He is just a head and shoulders. His hair is wild and unkempt, his face has a permanent glower. He wears a kind of jacket, with a white shirt underneath, and a string tie.
I didn't practice my drawings, I drew them straight on to the page. This was a mistake because they looked like two scarecrows, one fair and one dark. And they both looked really sad. This wasn't right for Schubert, so I added a little upturning curl to one end of his downturning mouth. After that he looked wry. And the word that appeared in his bubble was THANKYOU.
Beethoven's shoulders got wider and wider, to make him look like a man. But I'd accidentally given him a Peter Pan collar, and a bow, and puffed sleeves. I couldn't see that adding more details would make him look better, so I stopped, and gave him a bubble. And the word that appeared in his bubble was WHY?
For example, I know that all the men at the Lunch Hour Concerts who have hair will look from behind as though they are sitting in a stiff breeze, which is blowing towards the stage. It is the way their hair grows.
I was at one yesterday. The Elder Trio played Schubert, then Beethoven. It struck me that the Schubert was better than the Beethoven, probably because Beethoven was deaf.
Later in the evening I wrote in my diary: The Schubert was lovely, the Beethoven was not. Then I felt sorry for Beethoven, so I decided to draw a picture of him, and one of Schubert, side by side, and allow them a speech bubble in which to say whatever they liked.
Now, I know what Schubert looks like. He has no legs. He is just a head and shoulders. His hair is wavy and slightly receding although he is really quite young. His lips are romantic and full. He wears a soft cravat.
I also know what Beethoven looks like. He too has no legs. He is just a head and shoulders. His hair is wild and unkempt, his face has a permanent glower. He wears a kind of jacket, with a white shirt underneath, and a string tie.
I didn't practice my drawings, I drew them straight on to the page. This was a mistake because they looked like two scarecrows, one fair and one dark. And they both looked really sad. This wasn't right for Schubert, so I added a little upturning curl to one end of his downturning mouth. After that he looked wry. And the word that appeared in his bubble was THANKYOU.
Beethoven's shoulders got wider and wider, to make him look like a man. But I'd accidentally given him a Peter Pan collar, and a bow, and puffed sleeves. I couldn't see that adding more details would make him look better, so I stopped, and gave him a bubble. And the word that appeared in his bubble was WHY?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
What You Learn - Part two
And it's not just confined to what you learn about yourself. You learn a lot about the wider world as well, on a bus.
Take the trip home for example. I'm on a different bus, obviously. This one is travelling east. Behind me a group of Japanese girls are laughing and talking rapidly in Japanese. I suppose it's Japanese. One of them says "okay" three times in one sentence. I suppose it was one sentence.
The two girls sitting in front of me aren't Japanese. One has crinkly chestnut hair tied up in a topnot, the other has black wavy hair. They're wearing tops that are not identical, but an identical shade of violet. They're not talking. That's because one is reading. She is reading a small comic book.
I like to see what people are reading. And it's easy to do on a bus. Her book is called Bleach. It looks like a Japanese manga. The characters look fierce, or sad, and have those round eyes and spiked hair. She's holding it up quite high, so I can see. She turns a page. Now there's a cute animal character, that looks like a bear or a cat. Ichigo! it cries, in a speech bubble shaped like a star. Ichigo! I thought I told you to be gentle with me!
Take the trip home for example. I'm on a different bus, obviously. This one is travelling east. Behind me a group of Japanese girls are laughing and talking rapidly in Japanese. I suppose it's Japanese. One of them says "okay" three times in one sentence. I suppose it was one sentence.
The two girls sitting in front of me aren't Japanese. One has crinkly chestnut hair tied up in a topnot, the other has black wavy hair. They're wearing tops that are not identical, but an identical shade of violet. They're not talking. That's because one is reading. She is reading a small comic book.
I like to see what people are reading. And it's easy to do on a bus. Her book is called Bleach. It looks like a Japanese manga. The characters look fierce, or sad, and have those round eyes and spiked hair. She's holding it up quite high, so I can see. She turns a page. Now there's a cute animal character, that looks like a bear or a cat. Ichigo! it cries, in a speech bubble shaped like a star. Ichigo! I thought I told you to be gentle with me!
To be honest, I didn't learn anything from that. And anyway, I was more intrigued by the two girls' violet tops. One was a tee shirt and one was a hoodie. They weren't school uniforms. The girls were too old and one had long red nails. I wondered if they were sisters, or twins. The Mothra twins! But no...
It wasn't till later that I learned the story of Ichigo, Rukia, the Hollows and the Soul Reapers. And I didn't much care for it either.
But that's not the point.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
What You Learn - Part one
Today I caught the bus into town. It is interesting what you learn on a bus.
The bus was pretty full. I had to perch on a high narrow seat behind the driver, next to a woman who was reading a magazine.
A few seats back was a very fat man, who I've seen on the bus before. He looks like a big brown balloon, or walnut, and every so often shouts WaahaY!!
The bus radio was playing Billy Joel's Uptown Girl. That alone was a good reason not to have caught the bus. Then it got to the bit that goes oh- oh- oh- OH -oh- OH- oh- oh- oh- OH- oh- oh- oh- oh. I'm sorry that I can't really give you a proper impression of the notes. If I had a pencil and paper, I could, and if you could see the paper. Actually that isn't true, as I can't write music down convincingly. But I'm sure you remember the part.
So, what was I saying? Oh yes. Well I'm sitting behind the driver, right? But he can't see me, there's a barrier between him and me. And the woman next to me is reading a magazine. And Mr Walnut is keeping quiet after a big WaahaY! And I realise my eyebrows are going up and down in time to Billy Joel. Or it might even be the entire top of my head that's doing it. And I'm thinking, waaahay! it's amazing what you learn about yourself on a bus.
The bus was pretty full. I had to perch on a high narrow seat behind the driver, next to a woman who was reading a magazine.
A few seats back was a very fat man, who I've seen on the bus before. He looks like a big brown balloon, or walnut, and every so often shouts WaahaY!!
The bus radio was playing Billy Joel's Uptown Girl. That alone was a good reason not to have caught the bus. Then it got to the bit that goes oh- oh- oh- OH -oh- OH- oh- oh- oh- OH- oh- oh- oh- oh. I'm sorry that I can't really give you a proper impression of the notes. If I had a pencil and paper, I could, and if you could see the paper. Actually that isn't true, as I can't write music down convincingly. But I'm sure you remember the part.
So, what was I saying? Oh yes. Well I'm sitting behind the driver, right? But he can't see me, there's a barrier between him and me. And the woman next to me is reading a magazine. And Mr Walnut is keeping quiet after a big WaahaY! And I realise my eyebrows are going up and down in time to Billy Joel. Or it might even be the entire top of my head that's doing it. And I'm thinking, waaahay! it's amazing what you learn about yourself on a bus.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Triangles of Spangles
Perhaps it will work for you if I explain it, Pliny, I said.
Go on, he replied, but symbolism is of little use if it has to be explained.
Alright I won't then, I said.
No, go on. Why does the triangle of spangles represent political harmony?
Because it has three sides, equally balanced, I said.
You didn't say it was an equilateral triangle, said Pliny.
Well it was. Each side represents the players in the political drama that we are currently faced with, Labor, the Coalition, and the Independents and Greens.
That is four, said Pliny, reasonably. Or five if you split the Coalition.
Alright, I said. But you could think of them as three.
You could, agreed Pliny. It is interesting, he added, that a triangle of light was formed on the surface of the sea. Was there a triangular hole in the clouds?
No, isn't that just the way the sun shines on the sea? Spreading from a point on the horizon?
Of course not, said Pliny scornfully. It generally throws a straight path across the water from the horizon to the observer.
Oh, I said. Then it was more an omen than a symbol. Just like your baby whale! And you know what? Later on in the afternoon I saw a dolphin! I remember it clearly now.
Pliny sighed.
Go on, he replied, but symbolism is of little use if it has to be explained.
Alright I won't then, I said.
No, go on. Why does the triangle of spangles represent political harmony?
Because it has three sides, equally balanced, I said.
You didn't say it was an equilateral triangle, said Pliny.
Well it was. Each side represents the players in the political drama that we are currently faced with, Labor, the Coalition, and the Independents and Greens.
That is four, said Pliny, reasonably. Or five if you split the Coalition.
Alright, I said. But you could think of them as three.
You could, agreed Pliny. It is interesting, he added, that a triangle of light was formed on the surface of the sea. Was there a triangular hole in the clouds?
No, isn't that just the way the sun shines on the sea? Spreading from a point on the horizon?
Of course not, said Pliny scornfully. It generally throws a straight path
Oh, I said. Then it was more an omen than a symbol. Just like your baby whale! And you know what? Later on in the afternoon I saw a dolphin! I remember it clearly now.
Pliny sighed.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Harmonious Poem
I liked your Green Poem, Pliny, I said. Would you like to see mine? It's called Harmonious Poem. Without waiting for him to reply, I began:
Harmonious Poem
The day after the election
the sun came out
people went to the beach forgetting
what they had brought about
They walked their dogs
they ate icecreams
built sandcastles and didn't see
the tide coming in.
A triangle of spangles
sparkled on the sea
representing the harmonious country
this might be.
Not bad, said Pliny, although your rhyming leaves something to be desired.
Well, I wrote it in a hurry, I said. As I suspect you wrote yours.
What makes you think that? asked Pliny.
You paid no attention to metre, I said. Even an amateur can tell.
It was straight from the heart, said Pliny, sentimentally. I see you liked my baby whale.
You stole it from Bob Brown, I said.
But he didn't transform it into art, said Pliny.
True, he didn't. What did you think of my own use of symbolism?
The triangle of spangles? said Pliny. It didn't work for me.
Harmonious Poem
The day after the election
the sun came out
people went to the beach forgetting
what they had brought about
They walked their dogs
they ate icecreams
built sandcastles and didn't see
the tide coming in.
A triangle of spangles
sparkled on the sea
representing the harmonious country
this might be.
Not bad, said Pliny, although your rhyming leaves something to be desired.
Well, I wrote it in a hurry, I said. As I suspect you wrote yours.
What makes you think that? asked Pliny.
You paid no attention to metre, I said. Even an amateur can tell.
It was straight from the heart, said Pliny, sentimentally. I see you liked my baby whale.
You stole it from Bob Brown, I said.
But he didn't transform it into art, said Pliny.
True, he didn't. What did you think of my own use of symbolism?
The triangle of spangles? said Pliny. It didn't work for me.
Pliny's Green Poem
Pliny the Elder has been cock-a-hoop since the election, having recently decided he was Green. This morning he showed me a poem he had written in honour of their great result on Saturday. This was it:
Viro Sum
Viro sum et felix
Factiones maiores frustrati
Balaena infanta hodie nata
Omen Virides admovent.
Bono anima estis!
Viridis unum in consilium plebi
Nunc in senatu
Novem
I got out my Latin dictionary and had a go at translating it:
I am Green
I am a happy Green
The major parties are stuffed
A baby whale was born today
A sign the Greens go forward
Be cheerful everyone!
There is now a Green in the House of Reps
And nine Greens in the Senate.
Oh! What a lovely poem! I like the bit about the baby whale.
Viro Sum
Viro sum et felix
Factiones maiores frustrati
Balaena infanta hodie nata
Omen Virides admovent.
Bono anima estis!
Viridis unum in consilium plebi
Nunc in senatu
Novem
I got out my Latin dictionary and had a go at translating it:
I am Green
I am a happy Green
The major parties are stuffed
A baby whale was born today
A sign the Greens go forward
Be cheerful everyone!
There is now a Green in the House of Reps
And nine Greens in the Senate.
Oh! What a lovely poem! I like the bit about the baby whale.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Election Day Snaps
1. It is very cold outside the Korean Church at 8 o'clock in the morning. We arrange a few boards and posters. Christopher Pyne rocks up in his big election car. I don't think the Korean Church will like your poster on their railing, he says. Won't they? I say. No, he says making a scowly-Pyney face.
2. It is icy cold, and getting colder. I hop back and forth over a puddle to keep warm, and shuffle the How to Vote cards.
3. The Greens man greets everyone with: "Smile at the future?" An old lady says angrily: No way! Later he tries to hang his poster in a tree. It falls down. The sun comes out momentarily. He asks me if I want to borrow a hat. I say no thanks, even though I would like to see his hat.
4. A small boy is sobbing on the pillion of a parked motor bike. His mother addresses him loudly from the voting queue: I should have made it clearer, Darren. It's not time for the Museum yet. Darren's sobs become increasingly theatrical.
5. In the afternoon, we are at Surrey Downs. The Greens man there thinks that he knows me. Did your kids used to go to Irish Dancing lessons? he asks. No, I say, they didn't.
6. It is still freezing cold in the shade outside the polling booth. Round the corner, in the sun, four children are playing. One has a bike. Run us over! shout the other three. They stand with their legs apart and their arms wide open, pelvises thrust forward tauntingly, even the little sister in her short pink coat. The one on the bike rides towards them, but turns at the last minute. Chicken, says one of the boys.
7. Nina has left us sandwiches and a drink. The drink is Diet Blood Orange.
8. At the after party, in the Bowling Clubrooms at the Paddocks, it gets hotter and hotter. We watch the results on a screen. They show misleading sets of numbers and we can't hear what anyone's saying, but the local candidate seems to have won. Everyone claps. But he's on his phone. It's not looking good for Labor.
9. We probably have a hung parliament. Now I'm in bed, wondering whether today really happened.
2. It is icy cold, and getting colder. I hop back and forth over a puddle to keep warm, and shuffle the How to Vote cards.
3. The Greens man greets everyone with: "Smile at the future?" An old lady says angrily: No way! Later he tries to hang his poster in a tree. It falls down. The sun comes out momentarily. He asks me if I want to borrow a hat. I say no thanks, even though I would like to see his hat.
4. A small boy is sobbing on the pillion of a parked motor bike. His mother addresses him loudly from the voting queue: I should have made it clearer, Darren. It's not time for the Museum yet. Darren's sobs become increasingly theatrical.
5. In the afternoon, we are at Surrey Downs. The Greens man there thinks that he knows me. Did your kids used to go to Irish Dancing lessons? he asks. No, I say, they didn't.
6. It is still freezing cold in the shade outside the polling booth. Round the corner, in the sun, four children are playing. One has a bike. Run us over! shout the other three. They stand with their legs apart and their arms wide open, pelvises thrust forward tauntingly, even the little sister in her short pink coat. The one on the bike rides towards them, but turns at the last minute. Chicken, says one of the boys.
7. Nina has left us sandwiches and a drink. The drink is Diet Blood Orange.
8. At the after party, in the Bowling Clubrooms at the Paddocks, it gets hotter and hotter. We watch the results on a screen. They show misleading sets of numbers and we can't hear what anyone's saying, but the local candidate seems to have won. Everyone claps. But he's on his phone. It's not looking good for Labor.
9. We probably have a hung parliament. Now I'm in bed, wondering whether today really happened.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Winking
Pliny the Elder came into the kitchen and sneezed.
Bless you, I said. How did you go last night? I bet you were cold. Did you spot any Barking Owls?
I was unimaginably cold, said Pliny, and wet through, since it hardly stopped raining all night. But my expedition was well worth the trouble. Take a look at this!
He pressed several buttons and held out my camera.
Look at the screen, he said.
What is it? I asked. It looks like a round metal washer.
Look again, said Pliny. It is the eye of a Barking Owl.
Why is there only one of them?
Also known as the Winking Owl, said Pliny.
I'm impressed, I said. Did you hear it scream?
No, it would seem that the screaming is rare. But I did hear a great deal of barking.
You must be very encouraged, Pliny, I said.
Aaaa-choo ! Bless me! Indeed I am. I plan to return to the hills tomorrow to search for the Restless Flycatcher, also known as the Scissors Grinder. I believe it can be easily identified by the 'zeeep' of its contact call, and the grinding churring sound it makes when hunting. It looks something like a Willy Wagtail, except that its throat is white instead of black.
Oh, I said. So you won't be coming with us to help hand out How to Vote cards for the Labor Party in Sturt and Makin?
Unfortunately not, said Pliny. And in any case, I thought you knew I was a Green.
Bless you, I said. How did you go last night? I bet you were cold. Did you spot any Barking Owls?
I was unimaginably cold, said Pliny, and wet through, since it hardly stopped raining all night. But my expedition was well worth the trouble. Take a look at this!
He pressed several buttons and held out my camera.
Look at the screen, he said.
What is it? I asked. It looks like a round metal washer.
Look again, said Pliny. It is the eye of a Barking Owl.
Why is there only one of them?
Also known as the Winking Owl, said Pliny.
I'm impressed, I said. Did you hear it scream?
No, it would seem that the screaming is rare. But I did hear a great deal of barking.
You must be very encouraged, Pliny, I said.
Aaaa-choo ! Bless me! Indeed I am. I plan to return to the hills tomorrow to search for the Restless Flycatcher, also known as the Scissors Grinder. I believe it can be easily identified by the 'zeeep' of its contact call, and the grinding churring sound it makes when hunting. It looks something like a Willy Wagtail, except that its throat is white instead of black.
Oh, I said. So you won't be coming with us to help hand out How to Vote cards for the Labor Party in Sturt and Makin?
Unfortunately not, said Pliny. And in any case, I thought you knew I was a Green.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The Barking Owl
Would you like to come out with us tonight and watch some science films? I asked Pliny the Elder this afternoon.
Science films! said Pliny. Normally I would say yes, but I am setting off this evening to do some bird spotting.
In this weather? Pliny that is the height of recklessness. What sort of birds are you going to spot?
I have been thinking about the birds that have supposedly disappeared from the Mount Lofty Ranges, said Pliny.
Supposedly! I thought you believed that they had.
I didn't exactly say that.
True, you didn't. But surely you're not going up to the hills!
I am, said Pliny firmly. I am going to look for the Barking Owl. It is a most interesting bird which is difficult to spot, but easy to identify by its call. It barks like a dog, and some times it screams like a woman or a child. It seems the Aboriginal people used to tell the early settlers the sound was made by a bunyip.
Well, be sure you've seen one, I said, and not just heard one. Because there are a lot of dogs in the hills. And screaming women and children too, I added.
Pliny looked at me sceptically.
You are trying to dissuade me from going, he said, but you won't succeed. I shall rug up warm, wear a waterproof raincoat and carry an umbrella. I shall pack some sandwiches, a banana and a thermos of tea. And I shall take a camera. That reminds me, may I borrow yours?
I don't know, Pliny. What if you drop it in the mud?
But think, said Pliny, if it helps to identify a Barking Owl, what a contribution to the Woodlands Recovery Initiative that would be!
I think they would rather have money, I said, but alright, you can borrow the camera.
Science films! said Pliny. Normally I would say yes, but I am setting off this evening to do some bird spotting.
In this weather? Pliny that is the height of recklessness. What sort of birds are you going to spot?
I have been thinking about the birds that have supposedly disappeared from the Mount Lofty Ranges, said Pliny.
Supposedly! I thought you believed that they had.
I didn't exactly say that.
True, you didn't. But surely you're not going up to the hills!
I am, said Pliny firmly. I am going to look for the Barking Owl. It is a most interesting bird which is difficult to spot, but easy to identify by its call. It barks like a dog, and some times it screams like a woman or a child. It seems the Aboriginal people used to tell the early settlers the sound was made by a bunyip.
Well, be sure you've seen one, I said, and not just heard one. Because there are a lot of dogs in the hills. And screaming women and children too, I added.
Pliny looked at me sceptically.
You are trying to dissuade me from going, he said, but you won't succeed. I shall rug up warm, wear a waterproof raincoat and carry an umbrella. I shall pack some sandwiches, a banana and a thermos of tea. And I shall take a camera. That reminds me, may I borrow yours?
I don't know, Pliny. What if you drop it in the mud?
But think, said Pliny, if it helps to identify a Barking Owl, what a contribution to the Woodlands Recovery Initiative that would be!
I think they would rather have money, I said, but alright, you can borrow the camera.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Changes and Extinctions
We went to a lecture at the SA Museum last night, I said to Pliny. You would have enjoyed it. It was about the extinction of birds in the Mount Lofty Ranges.
I know, said Pliny. I was there.
Were you ? I said, surprised. We didn't see you. Did you sit at the back?
No, said Pliny, but I sat several rows behind you.
Why didn't you come up and sit with us? I asked.
Because I had been given a glass of wine, said Pliny, and I didn't wish to flaunt it.
What! You were given a glass of wine! I thought this year it was reserved for special guests.
It is, said Pliny. I became an honorary special guest after I introduced myself. Naturally they had all heard of me. I was the first writer to have written of the extinction of a species. That was the plant Silphium, which became extinct during my life time. Of course, I had also had something to say on the disappearance of certain birds.
Something really useful, I suppose, I said nastily.
They would not have found it useful, admitted Pliny, had they remembered what it was. It was regarding the birds known to us as Sangualis and Immusulus, which, it was asserted, had not been seen in Rome for quite some time. I wrote that I thought it more likely that, since a general lack of interest in all knowledge had prevailed of late, no notice had been taken of them.
Do you think that is why the Dusky Woodswallow, the Painted Button-quail and the Restless Flycatcher are no longer seen in great numbers in the Mount Lofty Ranges ? I asked.
It may not be, said Pliny.
Well, you have changed your tune, I said.
These are modern times, he replied.
I know, said Pliny. I was there.
Were you ? I said, surprised. We didn't see you. Did you sit at the back?
No, said Pliny, but I sat several rows behind you.
Why didn't you come up and sit with us? I asked.
Because I had been given a glass of wine, said Pliny, and I didn't wish to flaunt it.
What! You were given a glass of wine! I thought this year it was reserved for special guests.
It is, said Pliny. I became an honorary special guest after I introduced myself. Naturally they had all heard of me. I was the first writer to have written of the extinction of a species. That was the plant Silphium, which became extinct during my life time. Of course, I had also had something to say on the disappearance of certain birds.
Something really useful, I suppose, I said nastily.
They would not have found it useful, admitted Pliny, had they remembered what it was. It was regarding the birds known to us as Sangualis and Immusulus, which, it was asserted, had not been seen in Rome for quite some time. I wrote that I thought it more likely that, since a general lack of interest in all knowledge had prevailed of late, no notice had been taken of them.
Do you think that is why the Dusky Woodswallow, the Painted Button-quail and the Restless Flycatcher are no longer seen in great numbers in the Mount Lofty Ranges ? I asked.
It may not be, said Pliny.
Well, you have changed your tune, I said.
These are modern times, he replied.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Vignettes of Country Life
1. The Cygnet Cafe.
We went inside. It was a cavernous room held up in the centre by two beams that looked like polished trees. The counter was at the back. On the counter was a basket of scones, each one the size of four. The woman behind the counter pointed forcefully at the scones, obliging us to buy one. It is like that in the country.
2. 440 Main Road Clare.
We drove through Clare. looking for number 440, and stopped just where it was, more by good luck than signage. We walked up a muddy path and through a wonderland of large farm equipment into a cavernous barn. Cavernous! That word again! It is like that in the country. The barn was full of indescribable quantities of indescribably dusty things. Our thing was a dot matrix printer. It was in there somewhere.
3. The Woolworths Supermarket.
There is a certain lure to a supermarket. We just had to go in. We would need something for our dinner when we got home, after all. The supermarket was a cavernous one. They are like that in the country. Except for the small dying ones.
4. Lunch in Clare.
Everything on the menu at the pub was $9.95. You could even get ham steak with a pineapple ring. But we ended up at the bakery. We always do. Sometimes it takes a while for us to come to that conclusion. It was a prize winning bakery. They are all prize winning bakeries in the country. One of us ( not me ) had a Riblet Roll and the other a falafel.
5. Oranges in Zonta Garden.
We walked along the Main Road of Clare, towards the edge of town. There was a little public garden on the high side, with seats, a table and two stone slabs donated by the local quarry. They were massive slabs, such as you would expect to see in the country, upended, and their purpose was to block the view to the Main Road. Here we ate two oranges. It is strange eating oranges without a knife, the bitter scent of orange skin on your lips and fingers.
6. A Walk in the Backblocks.
Clare is a biggish country town. That means that there are backblocks. We walked along a road parallel to the Main Road, but two streets over. A young man drove his car out backwards, stopping at his letterbox to check for mail. He hadn't got any. Then he revved and hooned towards the town. It is like that in the country. We passed an old house that had once been grand, It was called Bleak House, which made us laugh. It was next door to a house that had a stone dwarf and a pumpkin on the wall.
7. The Drive Home.
Both there and back I was the passenger. I saw green wheat fields, and single flat bottomed trees, moving backwards as if on rollers. I saw cows and sheep and horses, also moving backwards. A man in a vineyard, snipping at a vine.
We went inside. It was a cavernous room held up in the centre by two beams that looked like polished trees. The counter was at the back. On the counter was a basket of scones, each one the size of four. The woman behind the counter pointed forcefully at the scones, obliging us to buy one. It is like that in the country.
2. 440 Main Road Clare.
We drove through Clare. looking for number 440, and stopped just where it was, more by good luck than signage. We walked up a muddy path and through a wonderland of large farm equipment into a cavernous barn. Cavernous! That word again! It is like that in the country. The barn was full of indescribable quantities of indescribably dusty things. Our thing was a dot matrix printer. It was in there somewhere.
3. The Woolworths Supermarket.
There is a certain lure to a supermarket. We just had to go in. We would need something for our dinner when we got home, after all. The supermarket was a cavernous one. They are like that in the country. Except for the small dying ones.
4. Lunch in Clare.
Everything on the menu at the pub was $9.95. You could even get ham steak with a pineapple ring. But we ended up at the bakery. We always do. Sometimes it takes a while for us to come to that conclusion. It was a prize winning bakery. They are all prize winning bakeries in the country. One of us ( not me ) had a Riblet Roll and the other a falafel.
5. Oranges in Zonta Garden.
We walked along the Main Road of Clare, towards the edge of town. There was a little public garden on the high side, with seats, a table and two stone slabs donated by the local quarry. They were massive slabs, such as you would expect to see in the country, upended, and their purpose was to block the view to the Main Road. Here we ate two oranges. It is strange eating oranges without a knife, the bitter scent of orange skin on your lips and fingers.
6. A Walk in the Backblocks.
Clare is a biggish country town. That means that there are backblocks. We walked along a road parallel to the Main Road, but two streets over. A young man drove his car out backwards, stopping at his letterbox to check for mail. He hadn't got any. Then he revved and hooned towards the town. It is like that in the country. We passed an old house that had once been grand, It was called Bleak House, which made us laugh. It was next door to a house that had a stone dwarf and a pumpkin on the wall.
7. The Drive Home.
Both there and back I was the passenger. I saw green wheat fields, and single flat bottomed trees, moving backwards as if on rollers. I saw cows and sheep and horses, also moving backwards. A man in a vineyard, snipping at a vine.
Plum Trees in Auburn
Today we went to Clare. It is a long way to Clare. If you leave our place at nine it will be coffee time before you get to Clare, that's how far it is. At coffee time you will be in Auburn.
Auburn is pretty quiet on a Monday morning. We stopped in the main street which is the only street, and got out of the car.
We walked back to a cafe we had passed. It was closed.
We turned and walked the other way, past two blossoming plum trees, to the Cygnet Cafe.
Tomorrow we shall see what happened there.
Auburn is pretty quiet on a Monday morning. We stopped in the main street which is the only street, and got out of the car.
We walked back to a cafe we had passed. It was closed.
We turned and walked the other way, past two blossoming plum trees, to the Cygnet Cafe.
Tomorrow we shall see what happened there.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
L
Tell me something, began Pliny the Elder this morning.
What? Anything? I asked.
No, he said. You did not wait till I had finished. Upon what principles do you decide whether an insect or an arachnid should live or die, once it manifests itself inside your house?
I know why you're asking, I said. You are thinking of the Huntsman spider that I killed yesterday.
Indeed, the Huntsman spider, said Pliny. The evidence of the savagery with which you killed it is still there upon the wall.
Is it? What evidence?
A large L -shaped smear, said Pliny. A brown horizontal line made by the impact of the broom, and a upward thrusting spurt of red ending in an exclamation mark at the point where the wall meets the ceiling.
If you saw it, I countered, why didn't you clean it off?
Why didn't you clean it off yourself ? asked Pliny.
I didn't see it, I replied. But you obviously did.
I cannot be expected to clean up the remains of your killings, said Pliny.
Why not, I clean up the remains of yours, I said.
Mine? he looked incredulous.
There was a large dead blowfly on the bathroom windowsill this morning, I said accusingly..
Nothing to do with me, said Pliny. It died of its own accord.
Flies don't just die of their own accord, I said.
No, said Pliny. Sometimes they get a little help from you. I saw you step on the one that had been drifting around inside the house for days. You squashed it, and then you picked it up with a tissue, threw it in the wastepaper bin and bent down to examine the underside of your shoe. And yet, I have seen you go to great lengths to save the life of a fly.
Well then, I said crossly.
What? Anything? I asked.
No, he said. You did not wait till I had finished. Upon what principles do you decide whether an insect or an arachnid should live or die, once it manifests itself inside your house?
I know why you're asking, I said. You are thinking of the Huntsman spider that I killed yesterday.
Indeed, the Huntsman spider, said Pliny. The evidence of the savagery with which you killed it is still there upon the wall.
Is it? What evidence?
A large L -shaped smear, said Pliny. A brown horizontal line made by the impact of the broom, and a upward thrusting spurt of red ending in an exclamation mark at the point where the wall meets the ceiling.
If you saw it, I countered, why didn't you clean it off?
Why didn't you clean it off yourself ? asked Pliny.
I didn't see it, I replied. But you obviously did.
I cannot be expected to clean up the remains of your killings, said Pliny.
Why not, I clean up the remains of yours, I said.
Mine? he looked incredulous.
There was a large dead blowfly on the bathroom windowsill this morning, I said accusingly..
Nothing to do with me, said Pliny. It died of its own accord.
Flies don't just die of their own accord, I said.
No, said Pliny. Sometimes they get a little help from you. I saw you step on the one that had been drifting around inside the house for days. You squashed it, and then you picked it up with a tissue, threw it in the wastepaper bin and bent down to examine the underside of your shoe. And yet, I have seen you go to great lengths to save the life of a fly.
Well then, I said crossly.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Lucky!
It was Friday the thirteenth. I didn't even think about it being unlucky. That was lucky.
I walked in to the city, forgetting that Chapel Street was blocked by roadworks. That was unlucky. I was about to backtrack, when I saw there was a pathway for pedestrians. That was lucky. Passing the diggings, I remembered I once wanted to be an archaeologist. There was nothing much to see though, but a broken pipe. It made me think I wouldn't want to be an archaeologist in Kent Town.
Mum and I circled the entire food hall and couldn't decide what to eat. Time was passing so we went to Michel's Patisserie, because it was the nearest. I ordered a vegetable pasty and she ordered a cheese and bacon triangle. Mine looked very ordinary on the outside. When I cut it open out popped two big green peas. You've no idea how much that made a difference.
During the Lunch Hour Concert, as the pianist played a soft poetic moving Fantasie of Schumann, a lady's mobile phone rang loudly. It rang four times before she found it in the bottom of her handbag. By then the pianist had stopped playing and the room was full of very bad vibrations. That was unlucky. At least it wasn't my phone, I always switch it off before the concert. No one calls me on it, anyway, at lunchtime.
Before dinner I went into the lounge to close the curtains. Above the curtain track I saw a huge Huntsman spider on the wall. I stared at him for ages wondering what to do. There's a spare bed in the lounge and you wouldn't want a Huntsman on the loose if you were in it. I whacked it hard with the head of a broom. Instead of falling to the floor and running at the speed of light to a hiding place from which to plot revenge, it dropped down dead immediately, and formed a tiny ball. I whacked it many times until its legs fell off.
I walked in to the city, forgetting that Chapel Street was blocked by roadworks. That was unlucky. I was about to backtrack, when I saw there was a pathway for pedestrians. That was lucky. Passing the diggings, I remembered I once wanted to be an archaeologist. There was nothing much to see though, but a broken pipe. It made me think I wouldn't want to be an archaeologist in Kent Town.
Mum and I circled the entire food hall and couldn't decide what to eat. Time was passing so we went to Michel's Patisserie, because it was the nearest. I ordered a vegetable pasty and she ordered a cheese and bacon triangle. Mine looked very ordinary on the outside. When I cut it open out popped two big green peas. You've no idea how much that made a difference.
During the Lunch Hour Concert, as the pianist played a soft poetic moving Fantasie of Schumann, a lady's mobile phone rang loudly. It rang four times before she found it in the bottom of her handbag. By then the pianist had stopped playing and the room was full of very bad vibrations. That was unlucky. At least it wasn't my phone, I always switch it off before the concert. No one calls me on it, anyway, at lunchtime.
Before dinner I went into the lounge to close the curtains. Above the curtain track I saw a huge Huntsman spider on the wall. I stared at him for ages wondering what to do. There's a spare bed in the lounge and you wouldn't want a Huntsman on the loose if you were in it. I whacked it hard with the head of a broom. Instead of falling to the floor and running at the speed of light to a hiding place from which to plot revenge, it dropped down dead immediately, and formed a tiny ball. I whacked it many times until its legs fell off.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Audrey Hepburn
Are you still here?
Yes I've been waiting.
Where is everyone?
They wouldn't come.
That's understandable. They were here last week when we waited an hour for our lunch. It happened like this. We asked the head waiter to sit us somewhere quiet, because of mum's hearing. He said he would give us a private alcove, so we came and sat here, Unfortunately it was so private they forgot all about us. It was half an hour before they even brought us some water.
So you practised the art of waiting?
No, the waiting staff practiced the art of waiting.
What do you mean? Oh I see. Waiting.
Yes. They're doing it again now.
So they are. This alcove has bad karma. Who would have thought it? It looks quite nice with the photo of Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly on the wall.
Yes, and the black tablecloth.
The black tablecloth is a bit weird, don't you think?
No.....well, yes it is now you mention it. Do you suppose it has some kind of disappearing effect on the people sitting round it? That would explain a lot.
Interesting theory, but we can see each other.
Perhaps you have to be walking past. Why don't we get up and see?
Both of us? That would be silly.
Yes but it beats waiting here.
Yes I've been waiting.
Where is everyone?
They wouldn't come.
That's understandable. They were here last week when we waited an hour for our lunch. It happened like this. We asked the head waiter to sit us somewhere quiet, because of mum's hearing. He said he would give us a private alcove, so we came and sat here, Unfortunately it was so private they forgot all about us. It was half an hour before they even brought us some water.
So you practised the art of waiting?
No, the waiting staff practiced the art of waiting.
What do you mean? Oh I see. Waiting.
Yes. They're doing it again now.
So they are. This alcove has bad karma. Who would have thought it? It looks quite nice with the photo of Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly on the wall.
Yes, and the black tablecloth.
The black tablecloth is a bit weird, don't you think?
No.....well, yes it is now you mention it. Do you suppose it has some kind of disappearing effect on the people sitting round it? That would explain a lot.
Interesting theory, but we can see each other.
Perhaps you have to be walking past. Why don't we get up and see?
Both of us? That would be silly.
Yes but it beats waiting here.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Please Wait a Little Longer...
I'm so sorry. I must go out in a minute. I know I promised you a second story on the art of waiting.
I'll tell you what. Why don't you go down to the Maylands Hotel, and wait for me there. In fact, let's make it a family affair. I'll ask everyone to come round a little later. Ask the head waiter to give us a table somewhere quiet.
Perhaps around the corner.
In a private alcove.
No one will disturb us there.
I mean no one.
And there we shall see that there are two sides to the art of waiting.
I'll tell you what. Why don't you go down to the Maylands Hotel, and wait for me there. In fact, let's make it a family affair. I'll ask everyone to come round a little later. Ask the head waiter to give us a table somewhere quiet.
Perhaps around the corner.
In a private alcove.
No one will disturb us there.
I mean no one.
And there we shall see that there are two sides to the art of waiting.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The Art of Waiting - Part Two
Are you still here? Good.
You may remember that we were sitting on plastic chairs watching two young men demonstrate their art with the aid of a turntable, an Apple laptop, two vinyl records, a cotton cornucopia, some haberdashery, several pincushions, threaded needles and coloured inks.
After several minutes it becomes apparent that the performance has started several minutes ago. Brown trousers has been bending over his laptop, which is connected to the turntable on which there is a vinyl record. Faint electronic sounds have emerged.
Pale blue suit, sitting at his table, has picked up a white cotton square in a round embroidery frame. As the faint electronic sounds have risen up into the cotton cornucopia and winged their way via the ragged cotton tape to his shoulders, he has picked up a threaded needle and started sewing.
He has chosen a coloured scrap of material and a hank of black fur. He has amateurishly sewn them to his sampler. He has picked up a coloured pen, and made several rhythmic marks on the sampler to the faint electronic sounds coming to him through the tape (and by conventional means, to us).
There are six or seven of us in the row of seats, and four people standing to the side. After ten more minutes the standers melt away. The other sitters look suspiciously like friends. Our faces up to now have been inscrutable.
There is an art to waiting, but there is no art in getting away.
You may remember that we were sitting on plastic chairs watching two young men demonstrate their art with the aid of a turntable, an Apple laptop, two vinyl records, a cotton cornucopia, some haberdashery, several pincushions, threaded needles and coloured inks.
After several minutes it becomes apparent that the performance has started several minutes ago. Brown trousers has been bending over his laptop, which is connected to the turntable on which there is a vinyl record. Faint electronic sounds have emerged.
Pale blue suit, sitting at his table, has picked up a white cotton square in a round embroidery frame. As the faint electronic sounds have risen up into the cotton cornucopia and winged their way via the ragged cotton tape to his shoulders, he has picked up a threaded needle and started sewing.
He has chosen a coloured scrap of material and a hank of black fur. He has amateurishly sewn them to his sampler. He has picked up a coloured pen, and made several rhythmic marks on the sampler to the faint electronic sounds coming to him through the tape (and by conventional means, to us).
There are six or seven of us in the row of seats, and four people standing to the side. After ten more minutes the standers melt away. The other sitters look suspiciously like friends. Our faces up to now have been inscrutable.
There is an art to waiting, but there is no art in getting away.
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Art of Waiting - Part One
Part one? Yes, I have two stories about the art of waiting. Today I'm going to tell you one.
It was last Saturday. We were at the Queen's Theatre, a dark and empty shell, with crumbling walls, on which were being projected various moving images made by people of varying degrees of artistic talent.
A woman in a black coat came up. Hello, she said. I'm the curator of this grainy mishmash of arty pretentiousness. Feel free to look around.
Actually, she probably didn't say the middle bit.
Then she said, if you are still around at four o'clock, two of our artists are putting on a demonstration of their work over there in the corner.
We looked at our watches; it was half past three.
At four o'clock, having looked at everything for longer than it deserved in order to oblige the woman in the coat, we approached the corner, where a row of plastic chairs was being assembled. Six or seven people had materialised, and the two artists. We sat down.
The artists were two young men. One, in brown trousers and a green jumper, stood behind a desk on which there was a turntable connected to an Apple laptop, and some vinyl records on a stand. Above his desk was suspended the wide end of a roughly handmade white cotton cornucopia or sounding trumpet, on a frame, which gradually diminished to become a long white ragged tape that the second artist, who wore a pale blue suit, wound several times around his neck, before sitting down at a table, on which were several small items of haberdashery, some pincushions containing threaded needles, and some coloured inks.
Now that I have set the scene, may I invite you to practice the art of waiting? Yes, if you are here this time tomorrow, I shall tell you the rest. Sit down, don't go away.
It was last Saturday. We were at the Queen's Theatre, a dark and empty shell, with crumbling walls, on which were being projected various moving images made by people of varying degrees of artistic talent.
A woman in a black coat came up. Hello, she said. I'm the curator of this grainy mishmash of arty pretentiousness. Feel free to look around.
Actually, she probably didn't say the middle bit.
Then she said, if you are still around at four o'clock, two of our artists are putting on a demonstration of their work over there in the corner.
We looked at our watches; it was half past three.
At four o'clock, having looked at everything for longer than it deserved in order to oblige the woman in the coat, we approached the corner, where a row of plastic chairs was being assembled. Six or seven people had materialised, and the two artists. We sat down.
The artists were two young men. One, in brown trousers and a green jumper, stood behind a desk on which there was a turntable connected to an Apple laptop, and some vinyl records on a stand. Above his desk was suspended the wide end of a roughly handmade white cotton cornucopia or sounding trumpet, on a frame, which gradually diminished to become a long white ragged tape that the second artist, who wore a pale blue suit, wound several times around his neck, before sitting down at a table, on which were several small items of haberdashery, some pincushions containing threaded needles, and some coloured inks.
Now that I have set the scene, may I invite you to practice the art of waiting? Yes, if you are here this time tomorrow, I shall tell you the rest. Sit down, don't go away.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Chocolate Marshmallow Cake of Zen
Now I've gone and entitled it the Chocolate Marshmallow Cake of Zen. Perhaps that's not really what it was. Or perhaps it was. You decide.
The Chocolate Marshmallow Cake is an invention of my daughter, when she was about thirteen. There is no recipe.
Instead, there is a drawing in blue biro on a scrap of paper seven centimetres wide, and ten centimetres long, torn on three sides and cut straight along the bottom. There are six tiny holes at the top indicating that the drawing has been pinned to a cork board, taken down and replaced five times.
This would seem to indicate the cake was made five times which is not the case. We only made it once.
The drawing looks like this: The top half of the paper is blank, except for the six pinholes. In the centre is the word Chocolate. Under the second 'o' in Chocolate an arrow points diagonally to a rectangle, covered on the top and two sides in scribble, representing melted chocolate. The rectangle is divided horizontally in two. In the top half of the rectangle is the word MARSHMALOW and, in the lower half, the word CAKE, only just identifiable, because the biro ink is running out.
From the drawing the cook can see that the way to make the cake is to get a slab of cake, melt marshmallow over it, and then melt chocolate over that.
I told you we only made it once, and that was for two reasons. One, because it was difficult to cut precisely, the chocolate being hard and the marshmallow underneath being soft, so that when you cut the chocolate layer it cracked into large pieces unrelated to a natural slice of cake.
And secondly, we never wanted to.
The Chocolate Marshmallow Cake is an invention of my daughter, when she was about thirteen. There is no recipe.
Instead, there is a drawing in blue biro on a scrap of paper seven centimetres wide, and ten centimetres long, torn on three sides and cut straight along the bottom. There are six tiny holes at the top indicating that the drawing has been pinned to a cork board, taken down and replaced five times.
This would seem to indicate the cake was made five times which is not the case. We only made it once.
The drawing looks like this: The top half of the paper is blank, except for the six pinholes. In the centre is the word Chocolate. Under the second 'o' in Chocolate an arrow points diagonally to a rectangle, covered on the top and two sides in scribble, representing melted chocolate. The rectangle is divided horizontally in two. In the top half of the rectangle is the word MARSHMALOW and, in the lower half, the word CAKE, only just identifiable, because the biro ink is running out.
From the drawing the cook can see that the way to make the cake is to get a slab of cake, melt marshmallow over it, and then melt chocolate over that.
I told you we only made it once, and that was for two reasons. One, because it was difficult to cut precisely, the chocolate being hard and the marshmallow underneath being soft, so that when you cut the chocolate layer it cracked into large pieces unrelated to a natural slice of cake.
And secondly, we never wanted to.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Fairy Cakes of Chagrin
My grandma's specialty was Fairy Cakes, a favourite of people who don't like baking. She used a wooden spoon.
First she made a Victoria Sponge cake mixture in a bowl. Then she added sultanas. It strikes me that I may have got my love of sultanas from her. I never thought of that before. Excuse me while I think about that for a bit. Hmmmm....yes...quite possible. Then she dropped wooden spoonfuls of the mixture into paper patty pans, and baked them in the oven for twenty minutes.
Once she was making a batch of these when I was at her house. I was about fourteen. A family debate was going on. I wasn't being allowed to do something by my mum and dad. They were there as well. I wonder what it was? Go out at night to something with my friends perhaps. I cried. It was embarrassing.
There was a song on the radio. Big Girls Don't Cry. Remember that one? My grandma and grandpa for once in their lives picked up on the words. Big girls don't cry, they told me, in unison.
I was beside myself with fury. Didn't they understand the song? Didn't they know that the song
climaxed with the words Big Girls Do Cry? I explained this crucial fact through my sobs, but they didn't get it.
Anyway, that was Fairy Cakes.
First she made a Victoria Sponge cake mixture in a bowl. Then she added sultanas. It strikes me that I may have got my love of sultanas from her. I never thought of that before. Excuse me while I think about that for a bit. Hmmmm....yes...quite possible. Then she dropped wooden spoonfuls of the mixture into paper patty pans, and baked them in the oven for twenty minutes.
Once she was making a batch of these when I was at her house. I was about fourteen. A family debate was going on. I wasn't being allowed to do something by my mum and dad. They were there as well. I wonder what it was? Go out at night to something with my friends perhaps. I cried. It was embarrassing.
There was a song on the radio. Big Girls Don't Cry. Remember that one? My grandma and grandpa for once in their lives picked up on the words. Big girls don't cry, they told me, in unison.
I was beside myself with fury. Didn't they understand the song? Didn't they know that the song
climaxed with the words Big Girls Do Cry? I explained this crucial fact through my sobs, but they didn't get it.
Anyway, that was Fairy Cakes.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
More Cakes of Joy
Perhaps you think I don't like fruit cake. You are wrong. Another cake I loved when I was young was Boiled Fruit Cake.
This was a cake my grandma used to make, and she gave the recipe to my mother. The recipe was handwritten on yellow paper. And that was why they both made Boiled Fruit Cake in the same way.
It was a funny way to make a cake. My grandma had copied the recipe from a magazine. The thing about my mother and my grandma was that neither of them liked cooking very much, and this recipe was easy, for a fruitcake.
What you had to do was melt an entire brick of butter in a pan, bring it to the boil, then tip a whole packet of sultanas into it, and a massive load of sugar. You boiled it for a bit. Then you let it cool.
This took ages. Sometimes we took the pan of hot sultanas out into the garden. As it cooled it got a greasy film on top. The sultanas puffed up tight inside their skins and flies buzzed round the rim of the pan.
When it was cool you added several cups of flour and two beaten eggs. To me this always seemed the way to wreck it. It never tasted nicer than it did before the flour was added. Plump warm sultanas in a melted toffee liquid.
But you couldn't pretend it was a cake. So the flour and eggs were added and the cake put in the oven. It took an hour to cook, because it was a rich and heavy cake.
In those days ovens were difficult to work, especially electric ones. At least my mother thought ours was. After twenty minutes on HIGH you had to switch to TOP OFF BOTTOM LOW. I don't know whether you had to say it aloud when you did it, but she always did and that's why I remember. Perhaps she thought it was funny. When you think about it, it is.
It didn't seem to help much though. Our boiled fruit cake was always burnt a little on the bottom. You knew you had a good one when the black layer was thin.
This was a cake my grandma used to make, and she gave the recipe to my mother. The recipe was handwritten on yellow paper. And that was why they both made Boiled Fruit Cake in the same way.
It was a funny way to make a cake. My grandma had copied the recipe from a magazine. The thing about my mother and my grandma was that neither of them liked cooking very much, and this recipe was easy, for a fruitcake.
What you had to do was melt an entire brick of butter in a pan, bring it to the boil, then tip a whole packet of sultanas into it, and a massive load of sugar. You boiled it for a bit. Then you let it cool.
This took ages. Sometimes we took the pan of hot sultanas out into the garden. As it cooled it got a greasy film on top. The sultanas puffed up tight inside their skins and flies buzzed round the rim of the pan.
When it was cool you added several cups of flour and two beaten eggs. To me this always seemed the way to wreck it. It never tasted nicer than it did before the flour was added. Plump warm sultanas in a melted toffee liquid.
But you couldn't pretend it was a cake. So the flour and eggs were added and the cake put in the oven. It took an hour to cook, because it was a rich and heavy cake.
In those days ovens were difficult to work, especially electric ones. At least my mother thought ours was. After twenty minutes on HIGH you had to switch to TOP OFF BOTTOM LOW. I don't know whether you had to say it aloud when you did it, but she always did and that's why I remember. Perhaps she thought it was funny. When you think about it, it is.
It didn't seem to help much though. Our boiled fruit cake was always burnt a little on the bottom. You knew you had a good one when the black layer was thin.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Cakes of Joy
It's my birthday tomorrow and naturally I'm thinking of cake. Cake and I go back a long way.
The first cake I remember was a photograph of a cake. No one I know ever made this cake but it was my favourite cake in all the world when I was small. It was in The Good Housekeeping Cookbook circa 1954, in full colour, the piece de resistance of all the cakes.
Imagine a cake, a large round special cake, covered with hard white icing, and trimmed with pink rosettes, pink stars and silver balls. And to make it even more desirable, it was tied round with a wide pink satin ribbon and finished with a perfect bow. A cake of joy for a little girl to dream of.
I knew exactly what the cake under the icing would be like. It would be sweet and light and it would be a sponge. It would be light yellow and there would be two layers joined together with jam and cream.
But one day I read the recipe and discovered that the cake was a dark fruit cake. I couldn't believe it. Yuck! I must have suppressed this new dark knowledge, because until today I'd actually forgotten that. So much for the cake of joy. Now it's upset me twice.
The first cake I remember was a photograph of a cake. No one I know ever made this cake but it was my favourite cake in all the world when I was small. It was in The Good Housekeeping Cookbook circa 1954, in full colour, the piece de resistance of all the cakes.
Imagine a cake, a large round special cake, covered with hard white icing, and trimmed with pink rosettes, pink stars and silver balls. And to make it even more desirable, it was tied round with a wide pink satin ribbon and finished with a perfect bow. A cake of joy for a little girl to dream of.
I knew exactly what the cake under the icing would be like. It would be sweet and light and it would be a sponge. It would be light yellow and there would be two layers joined together with jam and cream.
But one day I read the recipe and discovered that the cake was a dark fruit cake. I couldn't believe it. Yuck! I must have suppressed this new dark knowledge, because until today I'd actually forgotten that. So much for the cake of joy. Now it's upset me twice.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Rain Stream of Consciousness
It has rained nearly all day I woke up this morning pretty early and I heard a noise. At first I thought it wasn't rain but then I realised it was my eyes were shut they were stuck fast and I couldn't see the time on the radio clock. The later it was the more I didn't want it to be raining but I didn't know what time it was. It didn't matter what time it was then because later on when it was time to get up it was still raining.
It rained all morning and after lunch we wanted to go to the shops but it was raining although not very much we got ready to go but then I said no I don't want to go if it is raining. So we didn't go but ten minutes later ah! it stopped raining and the sun didn't exactly come out straight away but you could see that it was trying, if it makes sense to say that the sun can try.
So we were walking to the shops and it wasn't raining, it wasn't too bad and there were puddles on the ground and you could see reflections of the sky in the puddles they were of white clouds and blue streaks which were the blue bits of the sky. It was like these were the windows into another world underneath where we were walking and they had clouds and blue sky there as well but of course they were upside down and shiny like a mirror.
All the time we were out it wasn't raining but guess what when we got home it started raining straight away. That 's lucky I thought and then I thought it wasn't lucky there's nothing lucky about being inside when it's raining you're just inside that's all and some unlucky people might still be outside so you shouldn't gloat. And anyway I had to take out the bins and it was raining although it was lucky in a way because it wasn't raining hard.
It rained all morning and after lunch we wanted to go to the shops but it was raining although not very much we got ready to go but then I said no I don't want to go if it is raining. So we didn't go but ten minutes later ah! it stopped raining and the sun didn't exactly come out straight away but you could see that it was trying, if it makes sense to say that the sun can try.
So we were walking to the shops and it wasn't raining, it wasn't too bad and there were puddles on the ground and you could see reflections of the sky in the puddles they were of white clouds and blue streaks which were the blue bits of the sky. It was like these were the windows into another world underneath where we were walking and they had clouds and blue sky there as well but of course they were upside down and shiny like a mirror.
All the time we were out it wasn't raining but guess what when we got home it started raining straight away. That 's lucky I thought and then I thought it wasn't lucky there's nothing lucky about being inside when it's raining you're just inside that's all and some unlucky people might still be outside so you shouldn't gloat. And anyway I had to take out the bins and it was raining although it was lucky in a way because it wasn't raining hard.
Chocolate Stream of Consciousness
Mmm I've just eaten a chocolate it was a Sorini chocolate Li Feng gave me a whole tin of them this morning. What's a Sorini chocolate I suppose you are wondering, I wondered that too especially as it was given me by Li Feng. Did she buy it in Chinatown and was it a Chinese chocolate or did she buy it in Newton which would make it more likely to be Italian. Of course I know Sorini sounds Italian but the Chinese make Italian chocolates I have no doubt. There is nothing written on the tin. What do the chocolates taste like, the answer is they taste like Bertie Beetles only round.
I just booked two places at the next Sprigg lecture which is on the 17th. I wonder if Pliny would like to go it is just up his alley. It's about a woodland rehabilitation initiative in the Mount Lofty region aimed at restoring habitat for a suite of birds. A suite of birds, Pliny would like that. And I think he would enjoy sitting in the Pacific Cultures gallery under a straw alligator suspended from the ceiling with the walls on both sides lined with primitive weapons, hearing all about the suite of birds. And if they didn't offer him a glass of wine at the beginning he wouldn't mind because he wouldn't be expecting it, just like he doesn't know I've got Sorini chocolates.
I just booked two places at the next Sprigg lecture which is on the 17th. I wonder if Pliny would like to go it is just up his alley. It's about a woodland rehabilitation initiative in the Mount Lofty region aimed at restoring habitat for a suite of birds. A suite of birds, Pliny would like that. And I think he would enjoy sitting in the Pacific Cultures gallery under a straw alligator suspended from the ceiling with the walls on both sides lined with primitive weapons, hearing all about the suite of birds. And if they didn't offer him a glass of wine at the beginning he wouldn't mind because he wouldn't be expecting it, just like he doesn't know I've got Sorini chocolates.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
SALA Interface
It was yesterday, and very chilly at Glenelg. We were looking for SALA things to go to. You could see where they might be, because someone had wrapped the street trees in red and white polkadot jersey material, to mark the venues. Although this turned out to be misleading, because half the time there was nothing there but the tree.
Upstairs at Dymocks, it was warm. People had wine glasses in their hands, and there were dips and crackers and cheese. There was art on the wall, and decorative scarves.
A fashion parade, the highlight of the launch, began. A tightly black suited man with a tightly black plaited ponytail introduced the works of the artist who had produced the decorative scarves and wraps. Her work, he said, shows Japanese and Scandinavian influences, and also, he added, elements of the Portugese fado.
One after another three ladies emerged, wearing elaborate wool and silk creations round their shoulders, each of which had a name, such as Snow Queen, The Kimberleys, Autumn Landscape, and Dog's Breakfast. I am not entirely sure about the last.
The ladies came out through a door, stepped behind the guitarist who was sitting next to a high bunch of spiky painted aboriginal sticks in a pot, ducked carefully under the sticks, twirled, and completed the circle by going back through the door, to a smattering of applause.
I noticed, opposite me, beyond the sticks, a little girl, of about six or seven. She had the same expression on her face as I knew I had on mine. Our heads were slightly tilted to one side, our chins tucked in just a little, so that we looked up and out solemnly from under our eyebrows at the ladies in their scarves.
And yet, I don't think she could have been thinking what I was thinking.
Upstairs at Dymocks, it was warm. People had wine glasses in their hands, and there were dips and crackers and cheese. There was art on the wall, and decorative scarves.
A fashion parade, the highlight of the launch, began. A tightly black suited man with a tightly black plaited ponytail introduced the works of the artist who had produced the decorative scarves and wraps. Her work, he said, shows Japanese and Scandinavian influences, and also, he added, elements of the Portugese fado.
One after another three ladies emerged, wearing elaborate wool and silk creations round their shoulders, each of which had a name, such as Snow Queen, The Kimberleys, Autumn Landscape, and Dog's Breakfast. I am not entirely sure about the last.
The ladies came out through a door, stepped behind the guitarist who was sitting next to a high bunch of spiky painted aboriginal sticks in a pot, ducked carefully under the sticks, twirled, and completed the circle by going back through the door, to a smattering of applause.
I noticed, opposite me, beyond the sticks, a little girl, of about six or seven. She had the same expression on her face as I knew I had on mine. Our heads were slightly tilted to one side, our chins tucked in just a little, so that we looked up and out solemnly from under our eyebrows at the ladies in their scarves.
And yet, I don't think she could have been thinking what I was thinking.
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