This afternoon we walked along the esplanade towards Seacliff. It was warm and a little bit windy. The sky was blue and puffy. The sea, sapphire and amber, the sand dunes bejewelled with silken strings of portulaca, gazania and wild yellow oxalis. I'm telling you this so you will understand how pretty it was and how unlike Murk.
Last night we watched a Danish movie on SBS. It was called Murk. In Danish it was called Morke, with a line through the o. That may or may not be pronounced Murk, I don't know. Let us say that it is.
The movie was about Jacob whose brain damaged sister had died on the eve of her wedding to Anker, a weird guy from Murk, who she'd met on the internet. Jacob suspected that Anker had murdered his sister.
He drove to Murk, along a wet grey country road. Murk had an air of foreboding. Anker was fat and had the sort of haircut that made you think he was capable of murdering your sister.
We never found out if he had. But that isn't relevant here. What's relevant is that as we were walking along the shining esplanade this afternoon towards Seacliff, the sun went momentarily behind a cloud, six cars drove by in a slow procession and a young man shouted from the back of the second car, which was a black car, EEEEEUUUUUHHH!!!
And the esplanade took on an air of forboding, like Murk.
Showing posts with label Seacliff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Seacliff. Show all posts
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
The Flower That Is A Talking Fish
The second of my unconventional coastal flowers is the Talking Fish.
For the Talking Fish to be considered a flower I must redefine flower even more loosely as something orange.
That's ridiculous. I'll try again. Something that stands upright on one leg and has a head....and is orange.
The Talking Fish is another piece of esplanade art to be found at Seacliff. It has a message. The government is building a desalination plant in the gulf, which will result in saltier water. There are those who think this will be unpleasant for the fish.
Look now, at the Talking Fish. He is stencilled in black onto a sand coloured shade cloth tacked to the wire fence beside one of the sandhill exits. His body is coloured orange. He stands upright on a bifurcated tail fin. He looks angry. A speech bubble comes out of his open mouth. The words in the speech bubble are, I can't live in brine, Desal is not fine.
It is disturbing on so many levels. Firstly, the artistic. The orange colour reappears in ghostly form behind the fish in some sort of blotting accident. The final 'n' and 'e' are badly blurred, and the words are placed too low down in the bubble.
Secondly, the Talking Fish is obviously a goldfish, and they don't live in the gulf anyway.
Thirdly, the most disturbing thing of all....maybe it's just me but.....I can't live in Brine, Desal is not fine....okay it rhymes, and scans, with five syllables in each line, but somehow it doesn't seem to.
That is all I'll say,
Until the next day.
For the Talking Fish to be considered a flower I must redefine flower even more loosely as something orange.
That's ridiculous. I'll try again. Something that stands upright on one leg and has a head....and is orange.
The Talking Fish is another piece of esplanade art to be found at Seacliff. It has a message. The government is building a desalination plant in the gulf, which will result in saltier water. There are those who think this will be unpleasant for the fish.
Look now, at the Talking Fish. He is stencilled in black onto a sand coloured shade cloth tacked to the wire fence beside one of the sandhill exits. His body is coloured orange. He stands upright on a bifurcated tail fin. He looks angry. A speech bubble comes out of his open mouth. The words in the speech bubble are, I can't live in brine, Desal is not fine.
It is disturbing on so many levels. Firstly, the artistic. The orange colour reappears in ghostly form behind the fish in some sort of blotting accident. The final 'n' and 'e' are badly blurred, and the words are placed too low down in the bubble.
Secondly, the Talking Fish is obviously a goldfish, and they don't live in the gulf anyway.
Thirdly, the most disturbing thing of all....maybe it's just me but.....I can't live in Brine, Desal is not fine....okay it rhymes, and scans, with five syllables in each line, but somehow it doesn't seem to.
That is all I'll say,
Until the next day.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Two Days at the Coast
We went to West Beach on Saturday. The sea was the colour of prune juice. An ancient sea. A Mediterranean wine dark sea. The waves lifted and stretched before crashing. That was the moment you could see the prune juice and oxidized apple, with brownish white foam on the top.
The foam cascaded from the wavetops in bubbles that fetched up in pink scummy heaps mixed with seaweed and shivered in the wind.
That was Saturday.
On Sunday we went to Seacliff. We didn't go down on the sand. I had my camera and thought I'd take photos of flowers in the sandhills, and call them Flowers of the Coast. Some of the flowers were conventional flowers. Gazanias, portulacas, and stocks.
Then there were the unconventional flowers. The cat's head, the talking fish, the rusty solar pole and the little girl in the pink skirt. I shall elaborate tomorrow.
No, I have space here. I shall do the cat.
The Cat's Head Flower. This was......
No. I won't. It's getting bitty. It will be better if I do it tomorrow.
The foam cascaded from the wavetops in bubbles that fetched up in pink scummy heaps mixed with seaweed and shivered in the wind.
That was Saturday.
On Sunday we went to Seacliff. We didn't go down on the sand. I had my camera and thought I'd take photos of flowers in the sandhills, and call them Flowers of the Coast. Some of the flowers were conventional flowers. Gazanias, portulacas, and stocks.
Then there were the unconventional flowers. The cat's head, the talking fish, the rusty solar pole and the little girl in the pink skirt. I shall elaborate tomorrow.
No, I have space here. I shall do the cat.
The Cat's Head Flower. This was......
No. I won't. It's getting bitty. It will be better if I do it tomorrow.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
After, and Before
After the Rubber Band Debate we decided to go for a walk. I remember thinking, during the walk, that if the Tour de France was over, I would be paying more attention to my surroundings.
That is not to say I was thinking about the Tour De France.
I was coasting, observing nothing properly.
How lucky I was to have had that thought. For, from the moment that I thought it, I began to observe things properly again, but in a different way.
That was last Saturday. Let us see how long the proper memory has lasted.
We left mum sitting on a seat. No, that's wrong, we left her just about to sit down on a seat. She probably sat down on it after that. But by then we were walking south along the footpath towards Seacliff.
The sea was on our right, slopping and gleaming like molten steel in a bowl. Then the sand heaps, ugly. Then the dunes and struggling grasses. Then the gnarled and twisted bushes, the decrepit fence, the footpath, and us walking on it, towards Seacliff.
We were talking about something in Latin. That is not to say we were speaking Latin. We can't do that. We were talking about a word, errato, and whether it existed....
After that we fell silent. There was a sound, probably of the sea, slopping. What else could it have been? And another sound, probably of rustling bushes, or a bouncing car. Whatever the sounds, they were enough to make me think about listening, so then I heard another car, and several birds.
On the way back, northwards, towards Hove, we seemed to be somehow tilted towards the sky. I suppose the path must go uphill very slightly. In any case, I remember looking at the clouds which looked like solid lumps of dirty yellow wadding. Far away above the horizon a slash of blue sky promised the sun, by means of a triangulation of sunbeams. But minutes before it appeared, we had to turn up Smith Street.
That is not to say I was thinking about the Tour De France.
I was coasting, observing nothing properly.
How lucky I was to have had that thought. For, from the moment that I thought it, I began to observe things properly again, but in a different way.
That was last Saturday. Let us see how long the proper memory has lasted.
We left mum sitting on a seat. No, that's wrong, we left her just about to sit down on a seat. She probably sat down on it after that. But by then we were walking south along the footpath towards Seacliff.
The sea was on our right, slopping and gleaming like molten steel in a bowl. Then the sand heaps, ugly. Then the dunes and struggling grasses. Then the gnarled and twisted bushes, the decrepit fence, the footpath, and us walking on it, towards Seacliff.
We were talking about something in Latin. That is not to say we were speaking Latin. We can't do that. We were talking about a word, errato, and whether it existed....
After that we fell silent. There was a sound, probably of the sea, slopping. What else could it have been? And another sound, probably of rustling bushes, or a bouncing car. Whatever the sounds, they were enough to make me think about listening, so then I heard another car, and several birds.
On the way back, northwards, towards Hove, we seemed to be somehow tilted towards the sky. I suppose the path must go uphill very slightly. In any case, I remember looking at the clouds which looked like solid lumps of dirty yellow wadding. Far away above the horizon a slash of blue sky promised the sun, by means of a triangulation of sunbeams. But minutes before it appeared, we had to turn up Smith Street.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Sand by me.
Sand? Why did I pick sand? I don't know anything about sand. I don't even like sand. But let me think.........
Last weekend I was walking along the esplanade at Seacliff, looking at the heaps of sand the council had just dumped, and I remembered something I had read once about sand.
It was, that we are very lucky to be living in an age where there is sand. There hasn't always been sand. And one day there will be no sand again.
But I couldn't remember why it was true.
Then, three little grains of sand blew by me and spoke to me as in a dream:
First grain of sand: I am a coarse grain of sand. I measure 2 millimetres in diameter. I used to be bigger, but then I was known as gravel.
Second grain of sand: I am a medium grain of sand. I measure one millimetre in diameter. I am getting smaller all the time though.
Third grain of sand: I am a fine grain of sand. I measure .0625 millimetres in diameter. If I get any smaller I'll be silt.
Me: So?
The three grains of sand: Humans! They never get it. Let's roll!
Last weekend I was walking along the esplanade at Seacliff, looking at the heaps of sand the council had just dumped, and I remembered something I had read once about sand.
It was, that we are very lucky to be living in an age where there is sand. There hasn't always been sand. And one day there will be no sand again.
But I couldn't remember why it was true.
Then, three little grains of sand blew by me and spoke to me as in a dream:
First grain of sand: I am a coarse grain of sand. I measure 2 millimetres in diameter. I used to be bigger, but then I was known as gravel.
Second grain of sand: I am a medium grain of sand. I measure one millimetre in diameter. I am getting smaller all the time though.
Third grain of sand: I am a fine grain of sand. I measure .0625 millimetres in diameter. If I get any smaller I'll be silt.
Me: So?
The three grains of sand: Humans! They never get it. Let's roll!
Sunday, December 6, 2009
The Shark Perspectives
Oh what a multiplicity of views to be had yesterday between Hove and Seacliff by anyone walking due south along the breezy esplanade.
The first, a shock! The sand is low and wide. There's you, the rocks, a few low daisy plants, and three metres down, the sand, yellow and empty all the way to the jetty except for a man in a wide-brimmed hat, fishing at the edge of the sea. The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, shark blue.
A wooden seat on a concrete slab, the rocks, a sudden drop, the sandhills, rusty succulents and clumps of reeds, tipped with brown fuzzy pompoms, waving, the wide flat sand, the lifesavers' red and yellow tent and flags, the sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, and shark blue.
The bridge over the outlet, a sign, We Care for Water, a steep drop, between black rocks a pool, surprisingly clear.
A narrow pavement, scrubby trees, blocking out the view. A man and a woman, middle aged, walking a bulldog, that stops for a pee. A shuffling of walkers, and bikes.
Wire and shadecloth fence, ragged, low sandhills , camel humps of sand dumped by the council, sprouting seaweed hairs.
The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow and shark blue, six seagulls, a score of white-sailed yachts, surfboarders paddling north, a motor boat, and on the horizon, near the desal plant, a huge black Trojan Horse.
Children, running, wrapped in towels, a girl with a dozen balloons.
A helicopter, whirring overhead, stops ominously. Shark.
The first, a shock! The sand is low and wide. There's you, the rocks, a few low daisy plants, and three metres down, the sand, yellow and empty all the way to the jetty except for a man in a wide-brimmed hat, fishing at the edge of the sea. The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, shark blue.
A wooden seat on a concrete slab, the rocks, a sudden drop, the sandhills, rusty succulents and clumps of reeds, tipped with brown fuzzy pompoms, waving, the wide flat sand, the lifesavers' red and yellow tent and flags, the sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, and shark blue.
The bridge over the outlet, a sign, We Care for Water, a steep drop, between black rocks a pool, surprisingly clear.
A narrow pavement, scrubby trees, blocking out the view. A man and a woman, middle aged, walking a bulldog, that stops for a pee. A shuffling of walkers, and bikes.
Wire and shadecloth fence, ragged, low sandhills , camel humps of sand dumped by the council, sprouting seaweed hairs.
The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow and shark blue, six seagulls, a score of white-sailed yachts, surfboarders paddling north, a motor boat, and on the horizon, near the desal plant, a huge black Trojan Horse.
Children, running, wrapped in towels, a girl with a dozen balloons.
A helicopter, whirring overhead, stops ominously. Shark.
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