...and Lemmings

I keep thinking about your Hyperboreans, I said to Pliny the Elder. It seems a funny way to choose to die, by jumping off a cliff after a special dinner.

No, it doesn't , said Pliny. I might very well choose to do the same myself.

Hah! I said. You can't. It's too late for you.

I mean if I still had the choice before me, said Pliny.

I don't believe anyone would do that, I said. Except perhaps for lemmings. Where was it you said these Hyperboreans lived?

Beyond the Ripaean Mountains, said Pliny, which I think are these days called the Alps. In Hyperborea they enjoy six months of daylight at a time. There are found the hinges on which the world turns, and the limits of the circuits of the stars.

The Arctic? I said. Are you sure your Hyperboreans weren't actually lemmings? Because lemmings live up in those regions.

It is you who are confused, said Pliny. You probably think lemmings leap off cliffs in order to commit mass suicide. They do not.

I thought they did, I said.

No, said Pliny. That is where you have not kept up with modern research.

But what about that Disney Documentary, White Wilderness? I said. In 1958, they made a documentary that actually showed hundreds of lemmings jumping off a cliff to certain death. I think I saw it. No, I'm sure I did.

Aha, said Pliny. But did you see the The Cruel Camera, in 2008?

No, I said. Have I missed something?

It seems, said Pliny that the makers of White Wilderness, which won an Academy Award, by the way, transported lemmings from Hudson Bay to Calgary and launched them off a cliff using a turntable.

How dreadful, Pliny! I had no idea. Lucky you saw that and could put me right about lemmings.

One should always keep one's ears and eyes open, said Pliny.

I was silent for a while, thinking of the lemmings, and of the Hyperboreans.

Do you think, I asked, that something like that might have happened to the Hyperboreans?

What? said Pliny. That after dinner their guests shot them into the sea from a turntable?

No, I said, but maybe they didn't really want to go.

You don't understand the ancients at all, said Pliny.

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.