Nasty Little Words, Nasty Long Words
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From the oldest surviving epic poem, The Story of Gilgamesh (3000 BCE) to the, erm…poetry of Michael Jackson, the world’s first stone-washed human being–(Dancing the Dream: Poems and Reflections, it’s full of lyrical rhinestones like:
I looked for you in hill and dale
I sought for you beyond the pale
I searched for you in every nook and cranny
My probing was at times uncanny
and was published by Doubleday in 1993)–the debate (if debate it is) never ends: what is poetry? Is it, as Coleridge stated “…the best words in their best order.”? This definition is widely accepted–as much, I suspect, in exhaustion and resignation as in any belief in its adequacy as a definition.
Is poetry Marianne Moore’s ‘…imaginary gardens with real toads in them?” I’ve always liked this definition; it’s pithy and memorable–but universal? Hardly.
Is it, as The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary has it:
The art or work of a poet; composition in verse or metrical language, or in some equivalent patterned arrangement of language; the product of this as a form of literature, poems collectively; the expression or embodiment of beautiful or elevated thought, imagination, or feeling, in language and a form adapted to stir the imagination and emotions.
Well, yes…and no.
Is it Shelley’s “…a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.”?
Again, yes…and no.
Do we agree with Plato that “…Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history.”?
Was Mallarmé right to say “It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.”?
Or does poetry have to have a job at all? Can it not merely ‘be’, without responsibilities or obligations or reasons?
Is a poet one of Shelley’s “…unacknowledged legislators of the world.”?
Or is a poet Kierkegaard’s “…unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music…”?
I don’t know the answers to any of these questions, so I reckon the only sensible thing to do is ask for poems about poetry and poets; keeping in mind, of course, Macaulay’s assertion that “…perhaps no person can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind.”
I also want to alert you to a new collection, At the Fair, from our friend Tom Clark.
Iain Sinclair writes of it:
Doors swing open on this shock of light. Here you will experience scripts and mind-telegrams, shapely in nerve and essence, moving always, and moving on. A circus at the settlement’s edge: with memory-movies, new songs, and travellers’ tales. We are reminded of frontier days when poetry was the better politics, proud inside itself. As Tom Clark’s fresh voice echoes, and re-echoes, so beautifully, in the head. Across oceans and continents from Mediterranean California. And back. Mind kites in marine haze. Streaks. Showers.
Read more and buy the book HERE or at Amazon HERE.
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In the meantime, I’ll leave the last word to Basil Bunting:
What The Chairman Told Tom
Poetry? It’s a hobby.
I run model trains.
Mr Shaw there breeds pigeons.It’s not work. You dont sweat.
Nobody pays for it.
You could advertise soap.Art, that’s opera; or repertory –
The Desert Song.
Nancy was in the chorus.But to ask for twelve pounds a week –
married, aren’t you? –
you’ve got a nerve.How could I look a bus conductor
in the face
if I paid you twelve pounds?Who says it’s poetry, anyhow?
My ten year old
can do it and rhyme.I get three thousand and expenses,
a car, vouchers,
but I’m an accountant.They do what I tell them,
my company.
What do you do?Nasty little words, nasty long words,
it’s unhealthy.
I want to wash when I meet a poet.They’re Reds, addicts,
all delinquents.
What you write is rot.Mr Hines says so, and he’s a schoolteacher,
he ought to know.
Go and find work.—from First Book of Odes by Basil Bunting (1950)
Comments are closed.
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Great stuff, Hank. Your eye is not dimmed nor your natural force abated…to coin a phrase.
Here is a fit subject for poetry. Who wouldn’t wish to be:
Chiselling and cobbling, you’re a busy fella these days.
You wouldn’t want to be in my shoes. Unless you have very unusual feet.
My feet are probably the most pedestrian part of me. I certainly wouldn’t want to wear your socks.
Too late. I parcelled them up and sent them to Nicky Clegg.
Jack Brae Curtingstall
Good to see a new collection from Tom.
Next year is his seventieth birthday and I hope it doesn’t go unnoticed.
For unsoundness of mind, check out the poetry of S.W. at http://elizabethansurrealist.blogspot.com/
Shaking Willy was undoubtedly one of the greatest surrealists of his time. Nothing backward about that boy in the least.
MM, I have the tiniest suggestion of a modification here:
‘I think the dog had it as an entree.’
would you consider :
I think the dog had ‘that’ as an entree.
…wee bit better?
Now I’m curious about your feet…?
Reine~ Moon has now upped the ante in tribute poems to include pastiche. You retain the title ‘Milady of the Tribute’, but…
[Thanks for the ghost stories, Henry. I’ll warmly accept that ‘x’, if I may be so bold.]
and further:
Who is this Dr Samuels, and what colour is his camera?
Here’s an ancient one, posted on POTW over 3 years ago:
All modifications welcome. I meant shoes that I’d made.
And thank you very much for the mention, Mish.
And Jack:
“Next year is his seventieth birthday and I hope it doesn’t go unnoticed.”
It will probably not go unnoticed by me because I will be greatly surprised that it has happened; then again, if indeed I am surprisingly still here, I would be surprised to still be able to sort one date from the next, by that point.
An inveterate watcher of the skies,
when a squashed frog swims into view
may be tolerably surprised,
but that in itself would not represent anything new.
The poet, splendid in his wrath phenomenal,
with flashing eyes and floating hair.
He’s dropped his toupee in the canal,
has someone fished it out of there?
Not me.
I look forward to your new collection, Tom (which I’ve ordered). I wonder if you’ve ever considered (and I know this may be anathema to you) reading some of your own work to camera and posting it on youtube?
I know I (and certainly many others) who’ve not had the pleasure of hearing you read your own work would appreciate it.
I’d second that sentiment.
There’s a bloke near Dunfermline
Who I get my ideas from, since you ask
I’ve asked him for some poetic ones
Let’s hope he’s up to the task.
A lovely and flattering suggestion, Mish.
“Those days are over, for you,” quoth my bandaged Muse.
I hadn’t known they’d ever begun.
Ed, you have put me in mind of Sir Patrick Spens. Nothing like an old ballad to put a bit of rust in the iron… or was it steel in the soul?
All that was ever recovered
of the last lot of poetic chaps
to set out for Dunfermline
were the floating hats
Although I understand perfectly being camera-shy (I am myself), perhaps you’d consider recording some of your poems and letting me make videos of them (most likely using appropriate experimental film footage) and then (subject to your approval, of course) posting them? Just a thought and I’d love to do it…
Hi Tom ~
Congratulations on your recent attainment and on your anticipated one.
You may be interested in this celebration of Charles Olson’s centenary :
http://olson100.blogspot.com/2010/08/charles-olson-study-group-informal.html
Dear Mishari~
“I wonder if you’ve ever considered (and I know this may be anathema to you) reading some of your own work to camera and posting it on youtube?
I know I (and certainly many others) who’ve not had the pleasure of hearing you read your own work would appreciate it.”
I believe I’ve wanted to ask you that very question for quite some time.
Thanks for phrasing it so charmingly that I only need hold up a mirror ;)
Vicar~
I hope you’ve emerged al dente.
Please, weave a circle round me thrice…
If as I understand it hic is extending an invitation to Mishari to stand in for me in this privileged position before the camera, let me gracefully, or shall I say gratefully concede the honor to il miglior fabbro, as we used to call him around the back lot.
I have never owned or operated a video device of any kind, but something tells me Mish has all the proper apparati, so there we go.
He is moreover certainly 100x more camera worthy, I reckon without ever having laid eyes on him, nor his image. (To my own loss admittedly, but still.)
The bandaged Oracle puts me in mind of the time when Andy Warhol, inconvenienced by the mere thought of actually going out and doing a series of lectures he had been commissioned to do, instead sent one of his Factory “assistants”, the aptly-named Billy Name, who had his hair cut and frosted silver just like Andy’s, donned a pair of dark shades just like the ones Andy wore, did all the prescribed talks in the patented blasé Andy style, and no one even blinked.
No, no, Tom.
I spoke out of order in my enthusiasm. All you need is a golden mic and Mishari is offering to do the rest. You need not appear in fuller form than your vocal rendition alone.
You read selected poems of yours to mic; and I’m hoping to encourage M to read his.
Let me extricate my fox paw, please.
I don’t mess around with Slim.
[tiptoes away]
a golden mic
that we all lic
rights here upon the blog
am i addic
or dyslexic
eye spel like a guy dogg
(sic)
I have Guy Dogg’s first LP ‘Paws For Refreshment’. It’s a classic…
Although I must reluctantly admit to having a voice of almost supernatural loveliness (the late Maria Callas, on hearing my a capella rendition of ‘Who Put The Benzedrine In Mrs. Murphy’s Ovaltine’ declared me “Caruso reborn…”), the last thing a troubled world needs is me reading my doggerel.
Tom is entirely a different matter. Perhaps we can get his better half to bully him into reading into a can…
Quite right. Bad enough having to read your stuff, let alone listen to it.
Ahhh…my public. Where would I be without them?
It’s a grand offer, Tom. You’re in Berkeley, I think?
You may be able to record for free at the University.
If not, you could spend what 4 hrs with a sound engineer would cost to fly East, enjoy private accommodation and concierge services chez moi, attend the Olson festivities, and record with my resident tech guru.
Wouldn’t that be ‘gas’?
~
(I’m not giving up on your voice, M, just conceding this round.)
Hic, the lovely lordly Henry is welcome to my crown any day. I will fashion a backup tiara from some tinfoil. You were very quick to appropriate that kiss. I am only sorry I hadn’t seen it first.
Congrats to Mr. Clark, pleased to meet you kind sir. What a wonderful cover on your book, most appealing. Hope it sells in great numbers.
I would certainly pay good money to see or hear Mishari reciting. Anything.
And I am delighted to see “gas” gaining currency.
Well, just that I was the one who asked about his ghost, so I thought it might be for me, but I don’t mind sharing.
Oh, of course it was rightfully yours. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to share. xx
That’s a nice one. Was he really called Feeney?
Thank you M squared and No. The surname of my first boyfriend – people thought it was highly amusing to chant “Reine Feeney” as we walked down town on school lunch breaks. Poets in their own small way.
Were you shades and leather man or am I just fantasising again? Wonderful pen picture, as ever.
Thanks. One of the middle-aged types, unfortunately, if I actually made it in time.
It probably should have been a tiara for you to begin with, Re, (I’ll have my man check the vault and see whether there’s a spare; foil won’t do.) though I wasn’t deposing you, just noticing Moon upping the ante for next time.
Now, we must connive and contrive: how are we to induce/seduce our host to grant us a boon? (I’m sure the offer of remuneration is too gauche in this circumstance; only collect yourself, my dear!) After all, we’re not asking a benison for the troubled world, just for our self-indulgent selves.
There’s no prospect of bullying or badgering; he must be enticed, but with utmost decorum, mind (go lightly with the glittery decollete)…
I believe there are youtube functions/controls for private circulation only, such as one might share in all modesty with a privileged few of his nearest and dearest co-conspirators…?
(excepting you of course, Mowbray)
Think of the children, Mishari. If not for us, do it for posterity.
I think the money will work; as paper never refused ink, Mishari never refused fivers. I have a voice in my head for him, velvet smooth, which I should like to verify. Never mind posterity, do it for prosperity.
Posterity will have to rub along with Sarah Vaughn, Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Tom Waits, Enrico Caruso and Bing Crosby (yeah…Bing. I know he recorded a lot of really cornball stuff but he was a great singer–creamy smooth voice, immaculate phrasing).
As for the children, I suspect they feel they hear altogether too much of my voice as is…what’s that old gag? ‘His conversation had many periods of silence that made him a delight to listen to…’
For me, his poems have a ‘chest voice’ with a bit of a burr to it, not loud (except if exclamatory in an outburst) and with an unhurried but rhythmical loping cadence. A pragmatic but somewhat pedagogical delivery. That’s my guess.
Oh, and I just had a flash of Alistair Cooke, sort of genially indulgent.
I hear a Nick Cave timbre. You could be right about Cooke though.
MM’s voice I hear as quiter, dry, sardonic (…and then someone tickles him and he laughs high pitched hysterically).
Re: Bing–
I’m listening to the great Coleman Hawkins do ‘Until The Real Thing Comes Along’; it’s an instrumental, of course, but I’m singing along in my rusty baritone, much to Inez’ amusement:
They don’t write ’em like that anymore…
Heard on the news this morning about the sonic attack on East London in the early hours. Several people taken to hospital with bleeding from the ears and shattered glass everywhere. ‘Cor blimey, it was like the bleedin’ Blitz, guv’nor’, said Olive Cockles (83).
I hope you survived.
There were tremors up here too MM.
Pongo bit me. Everyone’s a fucking critic.
Just by coincidence, during my book clearout, I kept back a series of four to re-read: the Matthew Shardlake novels (by C.J. Sansom). The phrase “Lupus est homo homini” came up in the second of these, Dark Fire. All of them good miss-your-stop reads…
Has anyone not yet heard David Sedaris? I used to find him impossible to listen to, but he gradually won me over.
Sorry this is out of synch, just listen without looking.
(The story line makes no sense because it’s been segmented to include his Billie Holiday jingles.)
I have no sound on this particular computer in this backward outpost of the world (my mobile shut down in sympathy as I entered the building) but that only draws attention to David’s rather special (Swedish) dress sense.
I imagine it’s gay dress sense, and your electronics may be considered a benign protective force in this instance, Moon.
What do you perceive as Swedish, I wonder?
I’m impressed you’re able to read in transit without being nauseated (I feel a bit woozy and oxygen starved just thinking of it) … still so pleased to find you chatting more, I must say, you were to me a startling guerrilla poet for too long a time.
Remember your steam rising from the mare poem? That’s when I first met you.
Can’t think of anything to write; it’s one of those reading/listening periods, so some music instead via Seán McGrady:
If anyone has a copy of the film Sacco and Vanzetti or knows where I get get it (preferably not dubbed) I’d love to see it again.
Hi Simon~ I wish I had a copy just for the satisfaction of sending it to you, but sadly, I haven’t.
Simon, if you mean the 1971 Giuliano Montaldo film, you can download it HERE. It comes with subtitle files (with the suffix .srt)–just delete them. The film is in the original Italian.
That’s the one, Mish, thanks very much. I am restricted to university computers and for some unfathomable reason they take of dim view of such downloads… However, my friend who has never seen it is not so restricted and will be very grateful.
Always liked a bit of Joan, had forgotten about her momentarily. Thanks for the reminder Si.
No, I was referencing your “special – as they say in Swedish” from the other day. I understood that to mean “peculiar”.
I like the guerrilla poet image. It is true that most of my poems take around twenty minutes to write. An hour at most. That’s why mistakes creep in. Last night I went to bed saying “DISinclined, NOT Uninclined” to myself. After I’d cleaned my teeth, I administered two slaps to the face. Then picked up a bundle of twigs and gave my back a sound thrashing.
That’s more what I perceive as Swedish.
Of course, I get it now :)
I believe it’s quite possible to wreck a poem by ‘worrying it’.
Probably that felt sense of done-ness is a long-acquired art.
So you belong to the Self-Flagellation School?
Is that Brutalist?
probably more on the Norwegian side…
I’m afraid this makes it plain that I’m casting my vote with the Macaulay characterisation today…
~~~
Culkin’s views on poetry are worth as much as his films.
Interesting poem.
Thanks, Vicar. I actually get your joke, since the boy you refer to made a film here on Cape Ann, but I’ve never seen anything he’s done. I suppose he’s an adult now…
We’ve had many Hollywood film-makers/shooting stars here,
Cher, George Clooney, Tom Selleck, Sandra Bullock recently, but I never have gone to see them working.
I went to a David Mamet film made here as well, but didn’t like it. I realised when Reine was swooning over various screen actors that they generally don’t appeal to me much; only musicians and, evidently, poets.
Another probably strange thing about me:
In the broadest possible terms, I seem to prefer the appearance of women, but the company of men.
I’m doing him an injustice, actually. His study of social isolation among Greek epic poets was rather good (Homer Alone, Trebleday, 1998).
What, not even Johnny Depp?
Moon, did I hear you say you were thinking of leaving Paris for the blighted shores of Blighty. Think again, mon loup:
Yes, but
The last time I saw Johnny Depp, I had the most strenuous urge to bathe him, and to employ a stiff brush in the process.
I much preferred his nemesis, the cephalopod Davy Jones (probably the only Scot ever to possess that name?!
Go Hollywood.) who must have smelt better. He was a sexy squid.
I don’t mean to say that Johnny Depp’s fine person is displeasing to me, just that I can’t get into a lather at the sight of him, though I’m sure I could willingly lather him up in person.
Can I just say in defence of my swooning predilection that Johnny Depp does not remotely appeal to me? Vanessa will be relieved to hear it I am sure. I generally like to swoon over an older man, actor or otherwise and am not usually attracted to conventionally good looking men. Funny, clever men with nice hands are top of my list.
Henry, lots of trouble at mill over your way – hope the reinforced code red is not officially upgraded to scarlet. In any event, go safely amid the noise and haste.
Please, no defence needed on my account, Re. It’s a grand tradition.
I’m with you 100% on hands, but I’m deficient in my swooning capacity. I need lessons from you, in order to overcome being such a fucking critic…
Arrah, swooning is overrated, you’ll get by fine without it. I don’t swoon that much in real life truth be told. You’re not so super critical are you, never strike me as such?
That leopard would make a lovely neckpiece. It is gorgeous.
You’re another remorseless carnivore, but I know what you mean; the spots on white are indeed the essence of chic.
I’m not ‘super critical’ in a negative sense, but when someone catches my interest, I become exactingly
scrutinous and surmising, and too inquisitive, you must have noticed. If Sam Eagle tried to tell me the football news, I’d be apt to interrupt with an enquiry as to how long he’s had difficulty turning his neck to the left…
That sort of approach tends to get in the way of potential swooning.
Yes, I know what you mean, you are a curious George in that sense. I often offer unsolicited advice to Sam about his eyebrows.
Check out the baby Snow Leopard…all together, now: aaawwwwww….
I got Mrs M to have a look at HLM’s first stanza (she’s a natural solver)
In France hotblooded lovers cross
a blazing row that spurns a loss
of control freaking out a tame
amant reversing down two lanes.
but she couldn’t come up with anything. I considered Lorraine for line one, but it doesn’t really fit. A fascinating poem, I thought.
In another category I have this from a long-ago parodies blog:
You lost me, MM. What were you hoping the mem sahib would solve?
They’re crossword clues (I think). Though later on in the poem he goes on to suggest that the clues are ‘jumbled, wombled, incomplete’ I had it in mind that the initial stanza might contain some sort of key.
‘sparks’ a loss… The patterning is dense and fascinating, I agree, but maybe just puzzling itself?
Come now, Moon, elucidate for us.
What a tricky swab that Moon is. He belongs in France. In the meantime, take Randy Newman’s advice:
I apologise, Mishari. I fear I’ve horrified the reserved Tom into retreat from our company, no doubt through my unseemly enthusiasm.
Henceforth I’ll endeavour to cultivate a cooler elan.
*sigh*
Sorry to confound. It all made a certain sense when it came out.
The Blighty project looks even more on the cards; father-in-law had a stroke last night and was taken to H. I’m about to deposit Mrs HLM on the milk train.
Ah to be back in Carrickfergus…
Poor Mrs HLM, hope her Dad will be ok.
Yes, sorry to hear that, HLM.
Sorry to hear that HLM, hope all works out for the family. My own father had a stroke last year at the age 80 (while, as fantastic as it may sound, doing his morning press-ups on the kitchen floor – yes, at eighty!) but thankfully came back to fairly good health. But he wasn’t unaffected by it and the stress to us all was at times fairly hard.
Sorry to hear it , Moon, My f-i-l had one, but carried on very well and recovered. I hope it was caught early.
As my grandmother said about everything:
‘It’s only temporary…life is temporary.’
According to the news, you’ll either be richer in England, or sunnier in France.
“Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance…”
I see they’ve discovered an unknown Milton poem (maybe) in the Bodleian archives:
I suppose they could call it Paradise Foretold…
…and Isaac Babel’s widow has just died at 101. Red Cavalry is a great book and she was an interesting woman.
…or Maidenhead No More
Coincidentally, another poem thought to be by Milton (or possibly Melton, the signature is hard to read) has been found in the archives of Ventnor library.
On His Horninesse
Oh Milton never made me laugh this much.
Here’s another Milton gem found in the basement of Ramsbottom Central Library.
A wonderful find, MM! It sheds important new light on the discovery of this Wordworth 1st draft (found underneath a stack of Mills and Boons at Reading library).
I imagine you’ve all seen this suppressed version, but just in case:
Let go of dreams
For if dreams thrive
Days are a broken-winged bird
That’s half alive.
Let go of dreams
For if dreams rule
Life is a playing field
And I’m a Fool.
Excellent discoveries from ET and Simon. There’s more to Milton than meets the eye.
According to the G you’re on the way to double-dip, Reine. See you down there October 20th.
You can sing it MM. This recession is having a very detrimental effect on my lifestyle or “wrecking me buzz man” as the real Dubs might say. Will you bring the flask of boiled water, if you can still afford th’electric, and I’ll bring the sand sandwiches?
Meilton
‘E came in earlier, leering at me breasts
and nuzzling ‘is face in and I not near
finished clearing the mistress’s tea
“Joan” says ‘e “you are as a faggot”
“Am I indeed?” says I back making a show of grave offence,
‘aving confused faggot with maggot
and knowing that was no good thing to be likened to
“No, no, my pretty” ‘e says, unzipping himself with great urgency, and holding it towards me like some sad looking piece a sweetmeat
“you misunderstand me, you play all coy with me, pretending not to like it but…”
“What’s to like?” says I with a sidelong glance, trying not to smile at ‘is blind little mouse poking about as I fanned the embers in the grate
And then ‘e reaches up under me petticoats and ‘e’s in like Flynn before I can say “Lock the door” and ‘is log cracks and spits in me fire and ‘e’s saying poems or summit in me ear,
“Do I make you moan, Joan?” or some such
“I’ve been thinking about you all day”
And I lie there, on the cold floor, and think “‘e’s not ‘alf bad for a poet”
Lovely keeling, Joan.
I also have this Duffy parody, of her sonnet Prayer.
I was stung by a bee today. Standing at the till in Waitrose earlier, I felt something tickling the back of my neck. As I reached back to brush at it, a woman behind me said: “There’s a bee on your neck”.
Simultaneously, possibly alarmed by my movement, the bee stung me. I gave a muted yelp, more in surprise than pain, and brushed the dying bee to the floor.
The reaction of the check-out girl, who had observed all this, was to hail the manager, who promptly tied himself into knots of concern and contrition. I expect visions of lawsuits or me writhing on the ground in anaphylaxic shock and croaking shimmered in his mind.
When he suggested calling an ambulance, I laughed in his face and told him not to be so silly and could I please just get on with paying for my shopping?
I just felt sorry to have been responsible for the bee’s death. I like bees.
One of the things I liked about Napoleon was that he chose the honey-bee as his insignia. Not one of the pompous, heraldic beasts–the double-headed eagle, the gryphon, the dragon, the lion, the unicorn–so beloved of the in-bred half-witted ‘royalty’ of Europe, but the humble and admirable bee, that useful and constructive creature and the model of co-operative effort and humility.
One of these days, I’m going to take up bee-keeping. I even have the books (Bee-Keeping For Dummies was clearly written with me in mind).
Water? You’re joking of course. I’ve no doubt that whoever owns Southern Water this week is planning another juicy price rise. In these straitened times I have taken to making my own. You are welcome to try it, though some find its distinctive scent and taste rather disagreeable. Indeed, after he had left I noticed Canon Rogers, who came round for tea at the weekend, had vomited into the toilet with such force that the porcelain was cracked. Twyfords will be receiving a very stern letter from me. And a bottle of my home-made lemonade.
Canon Rogers, well I’ll be. As long as it’s not Mrs HLM.
My last was directed at Reine, if there’s any confusion.
So, Mr Bumble reached his target. Well done, my faithful servant. You will be rewarded in the Hive Of Heaven.
For my part, there was a great deal of confusion.
Is it Lady Bracknell?
If you provide hives, perhaps when the neighbours bees swarm, they’ll come to you?
What is the unlikely beekeeper’s answer to the mite, can you tell us?
It seems a shame, with your meadows, not to encourage bees.
I do adore bees, I wrote about my bee-keeper dream, did I? I’m sure I did…
When the charming bumbles stumble into the house, I’m very careful in ushering them back out to their wisteria.
I decided to ensure the purity of my Vital Bodily Fluids (©General Jack D. Ripper) by having an iceberg towed from the antarctic to the Thames and using it as our water-supply.
I commissioned the tugboat MV The Unsinkable Gordon Brown to do the job. The vessel is long overdue. I wonder if I should start worrying?
Good luck with getting the bees, Mish. I’m told there’s a waiting list for the nucleii of bees you’ll need because the varroa mite has wiped so many of them out. My great-aunt kept bees briefly, until her precious youngest got stung. How we all laughed, but the bees had to go.
Mish, I’m sure he died a happy death. Think of the other necks he could have perished on.
The varroa mite is a worry, Simon, but I recently read about a beekeeper in the most unlikely of places (Luton? Swindon?) who thinks he may have come up with the answer. My neighbours in the Sierra de Gata keep bees and I’ve always been fascinated by them (the bees, that is; although my neighbours are interesting, too).
Actually, I’ve always been fascinated by the so-called ‘social insects’. A book I can’t recommend highly enough is Edward O. Wilson’s The Ants, an immense volume and the fruit of a lifetime’s study. What a world…slaver ants, farmer ants, herdsmen ants, raider ants, architect ants—the variations seem endless…
I’m told by friends who keep bees that city’s are some of the safest places to keep them. I guess it depends on the proximity of gardens.
Why, thank you, Reine….although I must be pitilessly honest and confess that mine is a lovely neck: a column of pure and flawless alabaster rising gracefully from broad shoulders. Pity about the head on top of it…
He’s tormenting us again, Re.
Though alabaster makes for a stiff neck.
He’s fishing for compliments. We can all see it is a fine head indeed housing a brain beyond compare. All hail Mishari…
My comment has gone bunburying up into the wrong countryside.
More confusion…
… and the body underneath it.
Nothing wrong with the body beneath it, a model of ant-like efficiency–and indeed ant-like construction, with six spindly legs and…wait…why am I telling you this? You humans will never accept Antman. Back to my burrow. See you at your next picnic, you bastards…
Who knows where this will land, but…
I was 15 yrs of age when I read The Once and Future King, but I’m sure I recall that part of Merlin’s education of …? Wart? …Arthur
was the social doings of ants.
Never read it, hic. Somerset Maugham wrote a very amusing story called (I think) The Ant and The Grasshopper (after LaFontaine’s fable). His sympathies were entirely with the grasshopper, who sang all summer, as opposed to the industrious (and self-righteous) ant.
My sister and I were in France about ten years ago and due to an ill-working factor 60 or something got severely burnt after less than an hour at the beach. We didn’t realise the extent of our injury until she woke up shouting that she had gone blind (her eyes had swelled horribly) and I had searing pain in my legs. After two days indoors lathering yoghurt on our once pale and interesting selves and swallowing aspirin by the bucketload we ventured outdoors in the cool of the evening. I could hardly walk so we didn’t get very far but we came upon an ant colony going about their business and spent a happy hour marvelling and laughing hysterically at them. It seemed a very inequitable set up, the bigger ants just ran around showing off while the more feeble ones lugged heavy cargo thither and yon. Maybe you had to be there suffering from sunstroke-induced dementia but it was the high point of an otherwise calamitous holiday.
The big ants are soldiers, dear. Watch a threat materialise and see who’s busy…(Antman allows no aspersions to be cast on his kin).
Sorry Ant man. Please don’t bite me.
Fuck my old boots…there was an Antman. Check him out HERE.
How often can we expect to hear “Stop him my pets! Obey your Leader!! The Ant-Man commands you!”?
Come around the next time the bastards are towing my car…you’ll hear it.
Shalyapin / Chaliapin 1927. I thought this was the Song of the Volga Boatmen, but the Russians think it’s a barge haulers’ song and who am I to argue:
I was at the Cirque du Soleil show called ‘Ovo’ recently, and there were ant performers in it. Their behaviours were strongly evocative of the pointiness of real ants.
I had the story of John J Plenty and Fiddler Dan (the grasshopper) as a child…
‘Ten years ago or maybe twenty,
there lived an ant called John J Plenty…’
I would really like to know about the mite solution, but my question arose in the wrong place.
1000 flowers honey to you, if you tell…
hic, the bee story is HERE. I hope it works out.
Simon, I suspect ‘barge-haulers’ is correct. It sounds like that kind of work-song and I’m sure you’re familiar with Ilya Repin’s famous painting of same HERE.
A Publishing biz friend of mine was just this week extolling the bio of Somerset Maugham ( recently out, I think) by Selina Hastings.
He was so excited about it, he’s reading Waugh to prepare for reading her bio of him next.
~~~
Here we are… by John Ciardi
Ten years ago, or maybe twenty,
There lived an ant named John J. Plenty.
And every day, come rain, come shine,
John J. would take his place in line
With all the other ants. All day
He hunted seeds to haul away,
Or beetle eggs, or bits of bread.
These he would carry on his head
Back to his house. And John J., he
Was happy as an ant can be
When he was carrying a load
Big as a barn along the road.
The work was hard, but all John J. —
Or any other ant–would say
Was “More! Get more! No time to play!
Winter is coming!”…
Maugham was not, by all accounts, a very nice man; not that that’s here nor there, really–he was a terrific short-story writer.
I read the 4-volume Penguin Collected Short Stories many times when I was about 14. Does anyone read Maugham anymore? Have you read him?
His novels haven’t aged very well (although The Moon and Sixpence, which I re-read a couple of years ago, has stood up pretty well) but the short-stories are still a delight.
No, haven’t, but I have here in the bedside stack
‘Cakes and Ale’ which looks a quick read, though not a short story per se.
Many half-read books in process… The web has made me terribly non-committal.
Snap. I have (I just counted them) 19 just-started, half-read and unread books by my bedside, including the five I bought today (Brassai’s Henry Miller, Cormac McCarthy’s The Sunset Limited, Peter Carey’s My Life As A Fake, Iain Sinclair’s Dining On Stones and a biography of Tom Waits called Lowside of The Road)…and that’s just at my bedside.
Just like the bee that lands, hovers, lands, samples, circles, returns…
I can’t bear to say what I have waiting here for me.
Worthy, chastising, recriminating…
Now, I’m going to read a book. G’night, hic…
Lovely. x
My dreams included a cast of thousands of bees and ants; I’m exhausted after fending them off. No sign of Ant-Man.
If it all becomes too much, Reine, remember: you can always summon Antman to your aid. Antman is a friend to humans (nibbles on breadcrumb). Antman likes humans (well…most humans, except for Mowbray yclept ‘Antfoe, Scourge of The Hives’: he must die)…witness the awesome power of the ants, Mowbray and tremble:
Oh sweet Jesus, I feel faint.
God bless YouTube
I’ll bear it in mind, there are times I could do with Antman’s undemanding nibbling. I’ll make sure to hide Antfoe in the wardrobe before I call him.
My son has his debs ball tonight, so off to collect tuxedo, corsage and all the other paraphernalia. He blithely told me not to expect him back before ten in the morning. Keep your buzzer charged Antman.
What’s the big deal? I could eat a gecko quicker than that.
I also read Moon and Sixpence recentlyish. It’s stood the test of time quite well. Cakes and Ale was another good one, with a nice evocation of provincial childhood. The prefaces are as good as the books, if I remember correctly. I think the one in Cakes and Ale describes SM’s meeting with Thos. Hardy. Of Human Bondage and The Razor’s Edge contained a good deal of potted philosophy which came in very useful for the pretentious adolescent who was too lazy to read the philosophers himself.
What’s a debs ball?
Your son’s a debutante, Reine? I dunno…maybe it means something different in Ireland.
Could be the debauchees ball.
…or the debtors ball.
My son (a mere 3 yrs older than yours, Re) had an fortnight affair with a 35yrs-old woman at the summer’s end.
[“You’ll love her, Mum.”]
It ended when she went off to Hawaii for two months.We didn’t see much of him during that time.
[“She got real clingy real fast.”]
I hope this anecdote offers some perspective on the comparative innocence of Deb-orah the bee-balm ball.
So did you like her?
The relationship never emerged into a meet-the-parents phase.
I liked her photo well enough…
Gave him a little motherly word about the ‘biological clock’;
I feel it’s better to get those cautionary remarks in before actually meeting the subject of interest, makes it less likely to be taken as a personal criticism.
Do you think you would have reacted differently if it had been daughter/older chap?
Absolutely. I’d have left out the biological clock bit.
Why, MM, what would you say in that situation?
I wouldn’t say anything.
I wasn’t familiar with the Repin, thanks. I think you’d need to sing if you had to do that all day.
They all look far gone beyond singing or even standing up, but then, so do some members of the Yale Russian Alumni Chorus.
That gecko devouring video gives me the
The deb(utante)s ball is the end of secondary school knees up but debauchees is nearer the mark. Like a mini wedding in these parts – the girl and her people called here earlier for drinks and nibbles, then they all congregate in the shopping centre car park and head off in bus loads to the hotel. Lots of photos and oohing and aahing. The mothers get dressed up and get their hair done but I bucked the trend and steered clear of the hair straighteners. He looked very well in his tux I must say; he is a gorgeous young man in every way (said the clucking mother).
It was a fraught early part of the day; him indoors broke the fridge having decided, today of all days, it needed to be rebalanced; he punctured some vital component – not ideal when it was full of champagne and wine. A fridge purchase was not in the budget for this week. Now a sleepless night awaits, so I am steadying my nerves with luke warm bubbly.
Hic, if he told me he was going out with a 35 year old, I’d lock him in his room. Mind you, I went out with one myself at the tender age of 19. But I didn’t tell my mother!
Alan Rickman is in Dublin for the Dublin Theatre Festival. Guess who is going to be hanging around the rehearsal room with her autograph book?
I thought the simulcast of Phedra was tonight, but it was last night. I’m vinyasa-ed into bliss, so I can’t be upset, but now I’m on the email list, so I won’t miss anything else.
Glory, I worked hard today; earned this g&t.
I suppose it’ll be a swooning Rickman event for you, Re.
You can chat to me if you’re sleepless. I think we’re going to watch My Beautiful Laundrette as Plan B, and then I’ll check on you.
Must say, I’ve never locked this boy in anything, never would have occurred to me. Mind you, he probably could have taken a door down at the age of 7.
The desirable aspect of not having hysterical reactions is that he confides a great deal, which is priceless to me.
(I’m just warming you up for the big letting-go.)
We had a slowly dying fridge, gasket problem etc…it’s just better to replace them when they start to go, so don’t be too hard on HI. I’m quite pleased with the new one, vast improvement.
Mowbray, wouldn’t you even say ‘Have fun’?
Nothing at all? No acerbic quip?
I think a neutral stance is best, and anything in a humorous vein runs the risk of misinterpretation. ‘I didn’t know you were interested in antiques’ in a similar situation (though not with a relative) got me into a shedload of trouble.
I was just curious. I’ve seen several different reactions in the past, from enthusiastic endorsement to insane interdiction.
‘Shedload’ is well-said, I think; subtly evocative of manure.
I agree with your neutrality in principle, but with this particular child in this circumstance, I fell into the ‘mild approval, short of inviting her to dinner’ area of your response spectrum.
I do appreciate you sharing your perspective, Reine’s as well, but 3 yrs is, in truth, an enormous difference between 17 and 20.
I remember how appalled my parents were when I, as a 17 year-old, had an affair with a Lebanese ‘starlet’. Personally, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven, even if she did give me my first dose of the clap. She was stunning, though…
God, another trailer. Will we ever get the full story?
Trailers often seem to be the whole story.
This is more of a tease, eh?
but I’m not making my habitual request for audio-visual aids; I’m sparing myself the frustration of being denied.
What a small smug consolation that is.
I have the good fortune Hic of having a very good and open relationship with him. He has great freedom really but I still don’t think I’d cope with a 35 year old girlfriend. He is as stubborn as both his parents so no amount of protestation would work in any event. Thanks for the babysitting offer – I will try to sleep but I’ll drop in if not. Good flick that, enjoy it and your tipple.
I learned a lot of good tricks from my 35 year old. He cooked me scallops for my dinner one night; I thought it very exotic … and he read English newspapers. Far out back in the day.
In a curious twist, his third child by his latest girlfriend was christened on the same day as my son. She came tottering up the aisle as he finished a fag outside. They had turned up on the wrong day but we agreed to have a double ceremony. Dad wondered how all the man’s sisters seemed to know me … Long story Dad, I said, tell you again some time. “It was nice of you anyway Reine”, he said, “to be so acccommodating; the poor man seemed a bit shook.”
Please dear God let Daddy never find me here; is it too late to change my sign in name?
No. You can sign is as…oh, I don’t know…’scarletwoman’ or something…
I might go for something less subtle.
What, like ‘supertramp’ with your phone number? Good thinking…
Oh how you wound.
My apologies…it was only meant to make you laugh.
It did, very loudly. You know me too well.
I see HERE another ‘anti-gay’ clergyman has been found to have solicited sex from young men.
I always assume that ‘anti-gay’ ranters are closet gays. Why else would they be so exercised about what is, essentially, a private matter? Even in my teens, I was deeply suspicious of men who foamed at the mouth over ‘homos’, ‘poofs’ etc etc.
It now appears to be axiomatic: the more vociferously ‘anti-gay’ some bozo is, the more likely he is to be caught in a motel room with an under-age rent-boy.
Still, always good for a contemptuous laugh when one of the more egregious hypocrites gets found out.
I like the choice of photo, the nuzzle with Bush, the presentation of microphone, most evocative.
I still love your Blues Skies vid, Mishari. I woke up hearing it today, and it’s still with me. What a great song; I’ve been crooning all day.
They’ve all been older, Re, but not by quite that much…
Boyo said he and Miss Hawaii weren’t aware of the age difference until it didn’t matter.
No film yet, the infant phenomenon is rehearsing with her Papa downstairs.
Goodnight my sweets.
Goodnight daahling. Pleasant dreams.
Moon, are you with us?
I’ve been thinking of you often.
Is there a ‘pro-gnosis’ for fil yet?
Child home safely, great night had by all. I’m escaping west later – enjoy the weekend. x R (too late for a disguise at this stage)
The keyboard displacement lends a surreal verity to your early a.m. flight, Moon…
It really does sound a nightmare. Do try to take care of yourself in the midst of so much to manage. ~Kx
Thanks for asking, hic. Had to find diggs for the dogg and bundle the kids into the car at 4am yesterday. Thirteen hour journey and the price of the crossing exceeded the value of my car. F-I-L is in a bad way but confounding doctors and managing to talk under his oxygen mask. I’m shuttling back and forth from Milford on Sea to Bournemouth Hospital on a diet of Melton Mowbray pies and Gauloises hand-rolled. Looks like Mrs HLM is staying here for the duration, giving me much to do in the coming months, like leqrn to type on qn English keyboqrd.
In other news, Blqckpool, Spurs, Qrsenal and Dqvid :illibqnd qll lost>>>
So you actually are in Milford, HLM? I assumed you were joking. Best wishes to the patient from over the water.
hmm, more surreal displacement from me as well. dreamer.
sorry to hear of your bad news HLM. I’ve known a few people who’ve had strokes, been told that’s it for them and a few years later whilst not being as right as rain, they are at least not acting as if they’d had a debilitating stroke. So best wishes too.
At the risk of sounding a more dour note, my father died of a massive stroke. He was reading the paper, looked up at my mother and said “It’s very hot, don’t you think?” and dropped dead. It was like turning off a light. He never knew what hit him. Later, my mother said that all things considered, it was no bad way to go.
I agree. My personal nightmare would be to have a stroke that left me aware but totally paralyzed. I find it hard to imagine a grimmer scenario. Better a fast final curtain than that indignity…
On a lighter note, give thanks for Tea Party dingbat Christine O’Donnell, the comedy gift that keeps giving:
Oh, don’t watch the Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Mishari; you won’t enjoy it. That must have been a devastating shock to you as well, to lose your Dad so suddenly.
I was interested to read Jill Bolte Taylor’s account of her own
stroke (the hemorrhagic sort) and recovery, from her perspective as a physician. Her book is called My Stroke of Insight, but there’s also a video of her speaking, maybe on TED, it takes a while to acclimate to her voice, but I’m just off to a festival for the evening…
Oh, MM, I forgot to say, funny you should post that song today (tho’ I had to watch a different version, my silly proxy thing) I found out today, my trip out West for a training is a go for the first week of December. This is a bright spot of news, bringing a delightful frisson to my day. I’ll send you each a 12″ Giant Sequoia ;)
Here it is, a fascinating experiential account; worth bearing with it:
http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight.html
Jill’s talk is indeed wrenching.
There is a “history” (personal, familial) here, in this department.
The video was brought to my attention fourteen months ago, prompted by the last four lines in Paradiso Terrestre.
The paradisal experience Jill describes does not accord with events I have experienced, I am afraid.
Lovely that she has recovered so well. But she was only 37, and quite capable physically, at the time of her event; it resulted from a rare cerebral vascular malformation, not a debilitating illness; and in the aftermath, of course, she had expert care.
In all the above respects her stroke experience was atypical.
It has made a sort of superstar of her; at the cost, of course, of all that pain.
Would that things would turn out so well (?) for all stroke survivors.
I have known people who have “recovered” almost completely, as well as others who have recovered incompletely, or, sadly, not at all, from strokes.
I’m probably in the middle category… for the present.
A Buddhist acquaintance — a Cambodian man who was born in a Khmer Rouge “holding camp” — remarked earlier this evening, apropos events in his own background, that in his system of belief, there are two paramount truths: (1) life is suffering; and (2) one must know when and how to let go.
Any stroke survivor will henceforth have no trouble endorsing the first tenet.
The second is, as they say, “the rub”.
(By the by, I found The Diving Bell and the Butterfly infinitely annoying; that a neuroscientist might get a global bestseller out of surviving a massive stroke seems at least approximately within the bounds of plausibility, but the latter is stretched beyond limit by the idea of a paralyzed stroke victim being constantly attended upon by incredibly beautiful, concerned and attentive women; one found oneself murmuring wordlessly to the screen, “Give us a break, please”.)
I hope you’re receiving excellent physiotherapy, Tom. My very best wishes to you in your recovery.
The video came to me from a colleague at just about that same time you saw it. I believe it spread like California wildfire. I then forwarded it to my internist friend, who wrote back immediately that she’d just seen it herself, and Jill had been her patient at the time of her stroke!
I just love the right-brain dominant experience being explained by a neuroscientist.
You remind me of another synchronous experience…
12 yrs ago, my husband was found to have the type of angioma you mention (in a CT scan during suspected meningitis) and when we determined the best person to consult, I said: ‘Isn’t that the name of your cellist?’ (she was working with him on a recording at that time)
He phoned her up, and she got him in the next day; the top vascular neurosurgeon at Mass General was her husband. He did the surgery.
My father-in-law had a long slow recovery such as yours from ischemic stroke in his 70s, more an adaptation really, but he regained all functions except for somewhat slurred speech.
My great-aunt, however died instantly like Mishari’s father.
I suppose the good news is that people are learning to take action at the signs of TIAs, and getting preventive treatment earlier.
I do feel for you very much when you express that first Buddhist tenet. I must say though, that if life were suffering only, then the second tenet would not be such a rub, would it?
So, it’s Ed Milivanilliband. Despite resembling that slightly girly-looking boy you used to flick with a wet towel in the changing-room, he has the advantage of not being his brother. I can’t say his advent fills me with hope for the future, but who knows? His speaking style seems earnest and a bit dull. I can’t imagine him flaying Cameron over the dispatch box at PMQs.
It may mean that Labour swerves a little further to the left which it certainly would not have done if his brother had won.
A show of ours outside the Sage in Gateshead was once delayed whilst David M did a press conference about 10 yards away. An extraordinarily groomed young man, to the point of not looking human.
Afterwards he and his entourage entered into a mass mega blitz of mobile phoning and I had to ask them to push off as they were affecting the running order of an event.
Obviously I didn’t say “Push off”, although it was the subtext. And they did push off. Which made me think that’s not the sort of spineless attitude I want from a party leader. Ed Balls would have told me to fuck off but I wouldn’t want him as a party leader no matter how he had reacted.
That hair of DMs is quite extraordinary. I know this is heresy, but out of the choice available I would have preferred Bollocks. Sometimes aggression is an advantage, and the difference in outlook between him and EdM (in fact between all four of the chaps) is minuscule. From what I’ve seen of EdM he’s far too polite and civilised.
Balls is too obviously connected to Gordon Brown isn’t he? Too easy to attack. Though I see already the Tories are going for the Unions-backed tactic. Depends what the country thinks of Trade Unions I suppose.
After the loss of a lot of jobs, the TU’s might be seen in a fairer light.
Then again, Michael Owen yet breathes.
hic,
I’ve considered that last point. Which is definitely worth considering. My only answer would be that there seems to exist a great gluttony for punishment. Never enough.
Tom Ive mentioned this before but my Dad is currently on his way out due to cancer. He’s in an old folk’s home where, to use the jargon they are managing his decline.
I don’t see him a lot but at the beginning of May he was in his room just ( as he put it ) waiting to die. He was fed up with the doctors keeping him alive for a life which had lost its future. I found it impossible to imagine a life like that even though I understood his reasoning.
However it only took a visit by a local sixth form to listen to him talk about his experiences in WW2 to suddenly give him a new lease of life.
He’s a depressive so I can imagine a lapse into melancholy and nihilism is not an impossibility but his change of view following the slightest change of circumstances makes me understand that ( as you put it ) gluttony for punishment.
Again based on a paradox probably – dying being a worse option than not dying and coping with whatever your body throws up to make life difficult.
I’m no one to gainsay your experience, Tom. I would though be surprised if gluttony for punishment were the whole story.
I can’t help but suspect there is a wee slip of hope at the bottom of your box.
Even EdT’s Dad, melancholic as he is, seems to hold out some resilience of hope for connection and meaning, pleasure even, in what remains for him.
For me, the paradox lies there; connectivity/expanded consciousness resides in the right brain’s perception, yet in order to function we must identify with our left brains’ egoic perception, hence our fear of annihilation. Reconciling the two hemispheres might well keep me busy for life.
This was my song of the morning:
It’s an interesting question, Ed: is life better than death? Our instinctive answer is ‘yes’ but isn’t that a bit like saying the ‘known’ is ‘better’ than the ‘unknown’? I mean, for all I know, death will consist of riding around in a 1936 Bentley Sedanca De Ville drophead coupe with a young Gloria Swanson feeding me fois gras while Miles Davis plays the trumpet.
I know what you’re going to say: ‘…but, surely, that’s what your life is like already?’ and you’re not wrong, but maybe in death, the car never runs out of petrol, Gloria Swanson never runs out of fois gras and Miles Davis never runs out of puff.
I had an interesting conversation over dinner with an artist acquaintance the other day. He stated that it was his belief that we all, after a certain point, yearn for death. That point, he said, is usually reached in one’s 20s, as soon as it’s borne in on one how absolutely futile, random and pointless life is.
He reckoned that we refuse to admit or entertain this yearning, this ‘lust for death’ as he called it, because of conditioning. Our background of various religious teachings, the sense that we should be ‘grateful’, the almost unshakable idea that we’re ‘lucky’ to be alive….all these conspire to render us mute and ineffectual in the face of the obvious: life is shit and then you die anyway.
To be prepared to consume an endless succession of dog-shit sandwiches on the basis that once in a while, you may get a chocolate biscuit, is no way for a rational being to conduct him or herself.
I haven’t read it in 25 years or more but wasn’t this what Camus was on about in The Myth of Sysiphus?
If I remember correctly, Camus wondered why, given what we know about life’s essential futility, our natural reaction isn’t suicide? If I remember rightly, Camus said that our reaction was revolt. I can’t remember whether he thought this was a good thing or not.
I certainly think death is as natural as life but I’m probably in the Woody Allen phase of life at the moment. ” I can accept dying but I don’t want to be there when it happens”.
Isn’t life fantastic and shit at the same time?
The other Allen quote I like is his “I don’t want to be immortal by being remembered, I want to be immortal by not dying…”
I agree with you–life is both fantastic and shit. I was quoting my acquaintance’s view…
This was my afternoon music:
Michael Owen is a Conservative.
I thought Camus’ position was that killing yourself is as absurd as going on living.
I think that’s right, MM. I mean, he asked why we don’t top ourselves and concluded that it was as absurd as living. I’ll have to read it again but I think he concluded that rebellion against the seemingly inevitable was the way to go (although I can’t remember his reasoning, assuming I remember rightly). Today’s song for me:
I like that MM, and the revolt idea is circular as well? Revolt against futility due to conditioning?
Revolt against conditioning due to futility? …
Revolt against futility due to conditioning against which one revolts due to futility?
Utterly revolting, what’s to nibble?
Gloria Swanson looks nightmarishly like my mother-in-law.
hic, you’re m-i-l looks like THIS? Wow…meanwhile, on Main St:
It’s the parallelogram-your-heart bra.
She did. She was a ballerina.The look I’m accustomed to is more like these:
http://dannymiller.typepad.com/blog/2005/08/its_the_picture.html
It’s a long time ago now, but the age when the pointlessness of life was fully borne in on you (as a provincial teenager, anyway) was when you were 16 or 17, stoked by reading La Nausee and L’Etranger in Mme Rice’s French Lit class. Callow and superficial, perhaps, but it was a painful time. Let no-one say I was young and I was happy, as the Chinese chap said.
And this has been my evening listening:
Greetings from the west of Ireland where, glad tidings, a new laptop and modem have been purchased. It no longer takes a day to warm up the Internet. Trying to interest mother in some blogs but she retorted with “but Reine I don’t even like talking to people I know, why would I want to talk to those I’ve never met?” She does like talking really but is judicious about how and upon whom she lavishes her vocabulary. She and Dad are going away for a few days – weather forecast being scrutinised closely and worriedly. Rain due, qu’elle surprise. But, said father dearest, “we’ll have sunshine in our hearts little woman”. Cue groans all around from those secretly envious of their still-growing devotion.
I suppose a bit of sunshine in ones heart can compensate for the most Victorian appellation.
I wonder whether devotion grows with futility…?
Having a little time away, Re?
Speaking of that… the IP is packing off to an Appalachian
[apple-atch-Ian] Mountain Club hut for three days with her schoolmates.
We’re discovering, at the last possible moment, what essential bits and pieces are lost or missing…the zipper carriage on her rain-shell &c.
Visiting my parents today, I noticed again my father carrying on his not-quite-under-his-breath sardonic commentary on Mother’s thinking aloud. I heard myself say: ‘Oh stop it.’
You’d probably appreciate him, Mowbray.
By the way Mishari, I took him a copy of Liebling’s ‘The Sweet Science’ on the strength of your recommendation.
‘Ah, Liebling’ he said, ‘the best writer on sports’. Very pleased, he hadn’t read it… so thanks for that.
I’d also recommend Between Meals, hic (actually, there’s nothing by Liebling that I wouldn’t recommend).
You can get Between Meals from Amazon HERE for 72 cents plus postage. It’s a lovely evocation of Liebling’s young manhood in Paris and a glorious hymn to good food and wine. I passed along a copy to MM and I believe he enjoyed it (in his own brutish way)…
I ate it.
That reminds me, MM, of an old copy of Eliz. Marshall Thomas’ book ‘The Hidden Life of Dogs’. Half its cover had been chewed off by one of the four-leggeds.
I’ve just now ordered a fresh copy of Between Meals (sadly the house in Avenue Foch has been sold, so for now I must content myself with second-hand accounts in new books) as well as Tom’s ‘At the Fair’ and some Neruda.
Most obliging with the links, my Liege.
Strong approval from me of the childrens’ hair-colour on the cover, Tom. They say it will go extinct within 50 yrs, but I have done all I can to stave off the trend.
Some very fine pomes here!
One from the archive from me. I hasten to say that the last two lines are aimed at Ms Kilmer and not at any blogging fellow potes.
Welcome back, XB…we were beginning to worry a little, although Ned said you were deeply absorbed in a new job. All going well I hope?
Hope you and Holly have settled in alright, Zeph.
Great stuff from you both.
I’ve been thinking of hiring a caïque on the Bosphorus for the winter but someone said they’re hard to heat. That’s to be expected: you can’t have your caïque and heat it…
Just a long weekend Hic. Back in the big smoke now. I, too, am fighting the good fight to keep the gene alive. My David is a redhead although his Dad and I are both dark. Skipped a generation. Nobody ever believes I am his mother. One even asked in a whispered voice what age he was when we adopted him.
As to whether devotion grows with futility, a grim and one would expect, rhetorical, question. In my parents’ case, they are among the lucky ones who seem to be even more in love with the passing years. On the Victorian appelation, it is simpy an accurate description. She is very petite though the mother of three strapping girls. Mind you, I know a woman who, in some kind of Stockholm syndrome fashion, has become utterly and (insanely) devoted to a man who has made her life absolute hell so maybe it can happen.
Hope IP has a blast.
Interesting philosophical discussion on life and death. Echo the shit/fantastic sentiment. L’Étranger was the first book I read in French, brings me back to UCG library circa 1987 armed with dictionary and highlighters, escaping for regular trips to the canteen for a cigarette break to watch the cool guy who smoked Gauloise and held aloft his Kurt Vonnegut. Turns out he was right pillock, God knows the signs were clear to see.
Nice to read you, Exit, Zeph, and very fine poems.
I really struggled with my natural fastidiousness over this piece. But not for long.
Thanks, Mishari. And thanks to MM et al for the shout-outs (or is that shouts out?) a while back. I’m touched. And what’s this about a Christmas fete? I do have a new job, finally, and I’m looking forward to spending more time above ground from now on.
Will go back and review some of the repartee I’ve missed over the last weeks but for now here’s something from the PP archive for one of your recent topics. I anticipate scorn but am prepared with hexes…
I’m experimenting with this post, to see whether I’m as clever as I think I’ve been…Am I smiling at all of you yet?
I’ll never be grey, MM, I’m blonder by the day, and will eventually be shocking white; furthermore, I’m the very soul of patience, though that wasn’t always so. If I remind you of Hell, I hope it’s in the best way ;)
We’re a skipped generation recessive example as well, Reine, my sister and I, at least two generations in fact.
Delighted to see you back, ExitB, and that you dragged in the cat(-lady) with you. If there’s to be a PH ‘Christmas’ party, I hope it will be in February, so I may have a chance to come to it~ Our toast-master might say: ‘Let them heat caique!’
Zeph~ I hope you didn’t miss Mishari’s recently posted snow-leopard vid?
Yes, there I am, but too low res.
I’ll crop it and try again for sunshine in the heart…
‘ morning Hic, nice to see that lovely photo here however you managed it. x
‘afternoon, Re~ you click on the wordpress link at the bottom of this p. and make a profile (no need to make a blog) the site prompts you to make a gravitron/gravitar?… a graven image which then will appear with each of your wordpress comments anywhere.
Let me know if you need help… x
I see we have a new thread, so I’ll pop over and catch up.