Anoctopus

An apt epithet, said Gaius.

You agree you're a fishwit? snapped the octopus.

Not at all, said Gaius. But it is an apt expression for an octopus to use.

You ARE a fishwit, said the octopus.

I'm a natural historian, said Gaius.

Well you should be more careful with your specimens, said the octopus. I assume that's what I am.

Hello octopus, said Lavender. What's your name?

I'm an octopus, said the octopus.

Anoctopus! said Lavender. That's a funny name.

Another fishwit, said Anoctopus.

Pleased to meet you, Anoctopus, said Baby Pierre. Have you been having a nice evening?

I was, said Anoctopus. I've been mating.

That's disgusting, said Lavender.

Life is short, said Anoctopus.

No it's not, said Lavender.

It is for an octopus, said Anoctopus. An octopus dies soon after mating.

Serves it right, said Lavender.

Lavender! said Gaius. That's enough. Tell me Anoctopus, if that is really your name, which I very much doubt, does your short span of life explain your good memory?

I never thought of that, said Anoctopus. I suppose it does. We have to learn fast. And you are right, my name's not Anoctopus. But I like it. You may call me Anoctopus. You see? That's an example of how quickly I make decisions.

Admirable, said Gaius. I imagine you have a great store of knowledge as well.

I do, said Anoctopus. I could tell you a tale or two.

Stay then, said Gaius.

As if I had a choice, said Anoctopus.

My April Poem

What is your April poem? asked Pliny the Elder. When did you write it?

I wrote it ten years ago, in April, on a day such as yesterday, or today.

May I see it? asked Pliny.

I'll read it to you, I replied, and went to find my book.

It's called 'Like This One'

There are days in April
When the air is like water
Translucent and soft
With a warmth that is filtered
Through holes in the sun.

Days when the air is like cotton
Which lets in wafts
Of spice through the weave.

There are days in April
When the air is like memory
Connecting landscapes
Seasons and hemispheres
Decades apart.

That is very beautiful, said Pliny. And most appropriate, as you wrote it a decade ago.

I hadn't thought of that, I said.

Frames

Yesterday we went to Grange and walked north towards the jetty. When we reached the jetty we walked under the jetty without stopping. The sand was cold under the jetty. Without breaking my stride I looked right and saw a family tableau; looked left and saw the slurping sea framed by the jetty pylons. It seemed like the right thing to do.

We kept walking north towards the next jetty. The next jetty isn't visible, but there must be one. What we could see was a giant tanker on the horizon setting out from somewhere. It looked like a grey castle on a grey cliff. That was because it was a tanker. But it reminded me of a castle on a cliff because I often see photographs of one.

The sand formed rippling patterns north of the jetty. I like to look at patterns and think about their meaning. They have to have a meaning or they wouldn't be a pattern. I realised yesterday that might be tautologous, and if it was, the pattern was irrelevant. I was glad to think so, because it was hurting my ankle to walk on the pattern.

We left the beach. On the esplanade near the toilets we passed three wooden masts, A sculpture of a bird sits on top of the middle one. It looks just like a real bird. I don't think it's a pelican. I was looking back at the sea between two of the masts to where a purple sail filled with wind.

Today, when I first remembered the sail, the wooden masts framed the memory, for several seconds before I remembered what they were.