It's nine o'clock in the morning and I'm standing in a queue at the Grainger Studio to get free tickets to the Young Performers Awards Grand Final. There are four people in front of me, and
no one behind.
Three of the people, and myself, were previously sitting on a circular seat, in front of the Box Office.
The First Person: A lady of a certain age in an orange jacket, with an English accent, who doesn't even know the tickets are free.
The Second Person: A lady in a green top and black three quarter jogger pants who can't believe there isn't a long queue for the free tickets. Twice she runs off, and comes back.
The Third Person: An elderly gentleman in a pork pie hat and a tan raincoat. He knows how many people fit into the Festival Theatre. He knows how many people fit into the Town Hall. He knows how many people fit into the Elder Hall.
I know he knows because we talk about these things. But at last we run out of venue capacities to discuss.
It is difficult to talk easily to persons who are all sitting on an outward facing circular seat.
Eventually the conversation dies.
There now comes upon the scene a:
Fourth Person: A lady of the obese persuasion, who is sitting in the cafe, some metres away, waiting for an opportunity.
I do not know this.
For I am facing directly away from the Box Office, occupied with a Brink Theatre brochure.
Hola! suddenly everyone has got up and formed a queue at the Box Office desk, and there are four people in front of me, and the last of these is the obese lady, but the real last one is me.
Had she not done this I would have seats in Row E, and she a kinder adjective.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Incompleteness
I'm with Gödel, said Pliny the Elder. The world is not everything that is the case. I haven't received my book yet, although I've paid for it, and that's a fact.
I don't think Gödel's theorem was concerned with things that hadn't arrived yet, I said doubtfully. I think it was only to do with arithmetical truths. That some things arithmetical are true but unprovable, in any consistent theory.
Well, said Pliny, It's true but unprovable that I haven't got my book. How do you prove that you haven't got something?
You're right you can't, I agreed. But it's not the Incompleteness Theory.
Yes it is, said Pliny. My transaction in buying the book is incomplete without the book. And you can't tell me that a monetary transaction is not arithmetical.
I think you have won the argument, I said. Gödel's theorem is more useful than I thought.
I don't think Gödel's theorem was concerned with things that hadn't arrived yet, I said doubtfully. I think it was only to do with arithmetical truths. That some things arithmetical are true but unprovable, in any consistent theory.
Well, said Pliny, It's true but unprovable that I haven't got my book. How do you prove that you haven't got something?
You're right you can't, I agreed. But it's not the Incompleteness Theory.
Yes it is, said Pliny. My transaction in buying the book is incomplete without the book. And you can't tell me that a monetary transaction is not arithmetical.
I think you have won the argument, I said. Gödel's theorem is more useful than I thought.
Monday, September 28, 2009
All That is the Case
I'm sitting out the back at a wooden table reading a book. Trying not to lean too hard on my blue and green striped elbows. There's grit on the table.
The wind blows the shadow strands of my hair over the pages. I look up. I see something moving on the low wall near the rosemary and pencil pine, above the black pot. It looks like a tiny white and ginger mouse, or a chicken. I look harder. It's a feather, ginger at each end and white in the middle. The feather is attached by invisible threads to the brick wall. The wind is making it twist and toss and rock back and forth and seem to be pecking the air.
Now I know that it's not alive, it loses my sympathy. And immediately regains it. What makes it not alive anyway? It's moving as though it's alive. What's the difference? It's trapped. But it isn't going to die there. It loses my sympathy again.
I go back to my book, which is about Kurt Gödel the mathematician. I'm reading the words of Wittgenstein: The world is everything which is the case. Kurt Gödel is just about to present to his philosophical and mathematical friends in the Viennese coffee shop, proof that the world is not everything that is the case. I like this.
It's warm. I go inside. There's some orange stuck in my teeth, from lunch. I'm thinking about the feather. I'm thinking: after I've got rid of the orange I'll go and look at that feather close up. I get some dental floss. I walk outside still flossing. I hope no one can see me. I bend down and look at the feather.
It is in fact two feathers, each with a ginger tip, and joined in the middle by white fluffy down. They are caught on a filament of dried grass sticking up between the bricks. This is why they looked like a chicken.
I like this too.
The wind blows the shadow strands of my hair over the pages. I look up. I see something moving on the low wall near the rosemary and pencil pine, above the black pot. It looks like a tiny white and ginger mouse, or a chicken. I look harder. It's a feather, ginger at each end and white in the middle. The feather is attached by invisible threads to the brick wall. The wind is making it twist and toss and rock back and forth and seem to be pecking the air.
Now I know that it's not alive, it loses my sympathy. And immediately regains it. What makes it not alive anyway? It's moving as though it's alive. What's the difference? It's trapped. But it isn't going to die there. It loses my sympathy again.
I go back to my book, which is about Kurt Gödel the mathematician. I'm reading the words of Wittgenstein: The world is everything which is the case. Kurt Gödel is just about to present to his philosophical and mathematical friends in the Viennese coffee shop, proof that the world is not everything that is the case. I like this.
It's warm. I go inside. There's some orange stuck in my teeth, from lunch. I'm thinking about the feather. I'm thinking: after I've got rid of the orange I'll go and look at that feather close up. I get some dental floss. I walk outside still flossing. I hope no one can see me. I bend down and look at the feather.
It is in fact two feathers, each with a ginger tip, and joined in the middle by white fluffy down. They are caught on a filament of dried grass sticking up between the bricks. This is why they looked like a chicken.
I like this too.
To the Editors
To the Editors of Velosophy,
I feel I must protest at the way I have been depicted in your publication, by your good selves.
Firstly, I object to your reference to that scoundrel Dali's description of my bicycle, with the attached red hot water bottle, and snail. Does no one think to question the great Dali? Is he not the master of Surrealism? Is not the picture of my so-called bicycle the very essence of something Dali would DREAM UP?
Secondly, I think I may claim to be a philosopher of sorts. There are, I am certain, many references in my works to bicycles. You will forgive me if I have forgotten exactly what they are. However thanks to google, of which I note you make great use yourselves, I have found an essay on my book The Interpretation of Dreams, in which essay I find the following statement: Thus the wish to sleep the meaning of every dreams Freud Freud p. the real substance of the book which is I rode a bicycle.
I admit, that is not perfectly clear, but you must admit, it is a reference. Why the writer scrambled up his text is not my concern. Possibly he wants the reader to pay him some money to read the essay proper. However, this is proof positive that I wrote directly on the subject of bicycles, and therefore I put it to you: Would you not have better served your readers with a serious discussion of my views about the meaning of dreams about bicycles rather than being content to mock me through the scurrilous words of my erstwhile friend Salvador Dali?
I await your response.
Yours faithfully,
Sigmund Freud ( Professor)
I feel I must protest at the way I have been depicted in your publication, by your good selves.
Firstly, I object to your reference to that scoundrel Dali's description of my bicycle, with the attached red hot water bottle, and snail. Does no one think to question the great Dali? Is he not the master of Surrealism? Is not the picture of my so-called bicycle the very essence of something Dali would DREAM UP?
Secondly, I think I may claim to be a philosopher of sorts. There are, I am certain, many references in my works to bicycles. You will forgive me if I have forgotten exactly what they are. However thanks to google, of which I note you make great use yourselves, I have found an essay on my book The Interpretation of Dreams, in which essay I find the following statement: Thus the wish to sleep the meaning of every dreams Freud Freud p. the real substance of the book which is I rode a bicycle.
I admit, that is not perfectly clear, but you must admit, it is a reference. Why the writer scrambled up his text is not my concern. Possibly he wants the reader to pay him some money to read the essay proper. However, this is proof positive that I wrote directly on the subject of bicycles, and therefore I put it to you: Would you not have better served your readers with a serious discussion of my views about the meaning of dreams about bicycles rather than being content to mock me through the scurrilous words of my erstwhile friend Salvador Dali?
I await your response.
Yours faithfully,
Sigmund Freud ( Professor)
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Freud's Bicycle
Hello fellow cycling philosophers! Something a little different for you today. Le Bon David and myself, the VeloDrone, in conversation:
VeloDrone: You know David, it struck me the other day that it isn't only we philosophers that have interesting things to say on the subject of bicycles.
Le Bon David: Now that's a coincidence, my friend, for I was only thinking the same thing myself last night.
VeloDrone: Why so?
Le Bon David: Well, I was idly googling famous people and their bicycles, as one does, and I chanced upon a most intriguing tale of Dr Freud and his bicycle, which was, believe it or not, related by the well known Spanish artist, Salvador Dali.
VeloDrone: Not the one about the hot water bottle?
Le Bon David: The very one. You know of it?
VeloDrone: Indeed. It is my favourite tale of Dr Freud. And Dali. But do relate it for our readers.
Le Bon David: Certainly. It seems that in 1928 Freud was a refugee in London, living in Hampstead. While there he was visited by Salvador Dali. As Dali was crossing the old professor's yard, he saw a bicycle leaning against a wall, and on the saddle, attached by a string, was a red hot water bottle, which looked full of water, and on the back of it, a snail.
VeloDrone: Brilliant! It gives a whole new interpretation to analysis. And I had forgotten about the snail!
Le Bon David: I think Dali was more taken with the snail than the hot water bottle. You may recall his famous drawing of Dr Freud's head as a snail. And Dali himself identified most strongly with the snail.
VeloDrone: It would be enlightening to know whether Dali rode a bicycle.
Le Bon David: It would indeed, my friend. I shall endeavour to find out.
VeloDrone: You know David, it struck me the other day that it isn't only we philosophers that have interesting things to say on the subject of bicycles.
Le Bon David: Now that's a coincidence, my friend, for I was only thinking the same thing myself last night.
VeloDrone: Why so?
Le Bon David: Well, I was idly googling famous people and their bicycles, as one does, and I chanced upon a most intriguing tale of Dr Freud and his bicycle, which was, believe it or not, related by the well known Spanish artist, Salvador Dali.
VeloDrone: Not the one about the hot water bottle?
Le Bon David: The very one. You know of it?
VeloDrone: Indeed. It is my favourite tale of Dr Freud. And Dali. But do relate it for our readers.
Le Bon David: Certainly. It seems that in 1928 Freud was a refugee in London, living in Hampstead. While there he was visited by Salvador Dali. As Dali was crossing the old professor's yard, he saw a bicycle leaning against a wall, and on the saddle, attached by a string, was a red hot water bottle, which looked full of water, and on the back of it, a snail.
VeloDrone: Brilliant! It gives a whole new interpretation to analysis. And I had forgotten about the snail!
Le Bon David: I think Dali was more taken with the snail than the hot water bottle. You may recall his famous drawing of Dr Freud's head as a snail. And Dali himself identified most strongly with the snail.
VeloDrone: It would be enlightening to know whether Dali rode a bicycle.
Le Bon David: It would indeed, my friend. I shall endeavour to find out.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Puisque les Odeurs....
We had tuna subs for lunch. The tuna oozed out of the sides and all over our faces and hands. We carried an odour of tuna with us into the Elder Hall.
No one would have noticed. For the Elder Hall was redolent of fumigants and farts. I'm not saying these could be attributed to any one in particular.
There should have been a scent of roses and violets. Rosalind Martin was to sing some lovely old French songs.
Old French songs are weird though. When you read the words, they aren't as lovely as you think.
No one would have noticed. For the Elder Hall was redolent of fumigants and farts. I'm not saying these could be attributed to any one in particular.
There should have been a scent of roses and violets. Rosalind Martin was to sing some lovely old French songs.
Old French songs are weird though. When you read the words, they aren't as lovely as you think.
The thief of the cheese is not here.... I should like to sew but a magnet attracts all my needles.... My corpse is as limp as a glove....
When your breath is stopped by astonishment there is nowhere for bad odours to go.
Sorry Poem for Pliny
Pliny, this poem is for you:
Me paenitet pudor
deflectere facie rubrae
ex medio publica
induco anum emergentem
ex mare flammea
sub caelo pulveris;
florae parvae, subrufi colori;
et sonitus noctis candens.
Deterior tuo possuent,
nisi prima verba deleta
at tamen, me excuso.
What's this? says Pliny, reading my poetical offering. Are you saying you are sorry? Your Latin is so abysmal that I cannot be sure.
Yes, I'm saying sorry. What's wrong with it?
Translate it for me, says Pliny.
Alright:
Sorry I am, wishing to deflect
the shame of your red face
from public view
I introduced an old woman emerging
from the sea under a sky of dust;
small flowers of reddish hue;
and the glowing red night noise.
It could have been worse for you
had I not deleted what I first wrote
but nevertheless
sorry I am.
Jupiter! exclaimed Pliny. What did you first write? Never mind, he added quickly. Your verb endings are all wrong and your nouns and adjectives don't agree properly. And you are ambiguous as to whether you are excusing yourself or asking me to excuse you.
I thought you would like it, Pliny. But as to the verb endings and the nouns, some crucial pages have fallen out of my Latin dictionary.
That need not be a disaster, says Pliny kindly, since you have me.
Me paenitet pudor
deflectere facie rubrae
ex medio publica
induco anum emergentem
ex mare flammea
sub caelo pulveris;
florae parvae, subrufi colori;
et sonitus noctis candens.
Deterior tuo possuent,
nisi prima verba deleta
at tamen, me excuso.
What's this? says Pliny, reading my poetical offering. Are you saying you are sorry? Your Latin is so abysmal that I cannot be sure.
Yes, I'm saying sorry. What's wrong with it?
Translate it for me, says Pliny.
Alright:
Sorry I am, wishing to deflect
the shame of your red face
from public view
I introduced an old woman emerging
from the sea under a sky of dust;
small flowers of reddish hue;
and the glowing red night noise.
It could have been worse for you
had I not deleted what I first wrote
but nevertheless
sorry I am.
Jupiter! exclaimed Pliny. What did you first write? Never mind, he added quickly. Your verb endings are all wrong and your nouns and adjectives don't agree properly. And you are ambiguous as to whether you are excusing yourself or asking me to excuse you.
I thought you would like it, Pliny. But as to the verb endings and the nouns, some crucial pages have fallen out of my Latin dictionary.
That need not be a disaster, says Pliny kindly, since you have me.
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