"What is essential? It's one of the great questions of life, and, as I've suggested, it's a question that crops up in other adaptations than artistic ones. The text is human society and the human self, in isolation or in groups, the essence to be preserved is a human essence, and the result is the pluralist, hybridised, mixed-up world in which we all now live."
I loved this song. Not quite sure why it should appeal to a spotty adolescent, barely into his teens. What would I have known about about my love "gently sighing as the evening slips away"?
Even though he's an old Trot, I really enjoy Steve Bell's cartoons in The Guardian (most of the time) but I hate the cynicism he displays in today's paper. It bothered me enough to post the comment below on the newspaper's web site.
Mr Angry writes from Ashfield ...
I've been a fan of Steve's for as long as I can remember. I don't always agree with the message he sends but even the stuff I hate usually makes me grin. This, however, is simply a cheap shot; misrepresenting the manner, style and content of what the man said. Barak Obama is, indeed, a mainstream politician and he may well be hauled into and fully embrace the traditional role of chief spokesperson for the hegemonic force of our age. After all, he did put up his hand and asked to be President of the USA so it's not like he's pretending to be Che. But he's not leader of the parade Steve draws him as. At worst, right now he may be more like Don Quixote tilting at windmills. At best, however, he may put an end to the worst of the Bush era madness, opening up spaces in which the rest of us might see, once again, new opportunities to shake the tree. .
... as the Von Trapp family children (whom you know so well and love, Spike) sing. Last day at the office. End of this phase, standing on the threshold of a dream (as the Moody Blues were wont to tell us in the sixties anvd seventies). We love you and will miss you.
As in that which has been lodged against me at work by a former colleague, posing as a friend, whom one might describe (at best) as fanciful.
As in what one feels at the necessity to work in the office until 11:30 p.m. responding to some genuinely barking mad claims. Truly ... barking ... mad.
And if we fade when time has done with all the games we've often played through years we knew not how to count the meaning of the joy we'd found with no hopes lost before those lives we thought we'd bought were sold again for half the cost of old mistakes and tired friends surrendering will we know how to start again, to see anew this how and when and if we do will we see through the eyes of men yet wondering? Oh, let me know how easy lives go, show me all those tired men know, remain my friend to tell me when ... the end will one day be but never tell me not to play with who we were when we were free nor dim the lights of life to come before at last we must succumb.
(I listened too many times to Clint Eastwood and Jamie Cullum perform their brilliant Gran Torino. This came. And now I'm off to bed. Old fool that I am.) .
The film is so-so (although a huge box office success in the USA). The song, which plays as the credits roll, is the best part by a long, long mile. I'm not quite sure why I find it as affecting as I do ... but I do. Some of the lines are genuinely poetic (I think):
So tenderly your story is nothing more than what you see or what you've done or will become standing strong do you belong in your skin; just wondering
or
these streets are old they shine with the things I've known and breaks through the trees their sparkling
your world is nothing more than all the tiny things you've left behind
Well, it was a bit disappointing really. I suppose you have to give them credit for trying to look at race and identity in what might otherwise have been a Dirty Harry Draws His Old Age Pension movie. The problem is, however, it's almost impossible to suspend disbelief.
I know it's a fable of sorts; it's not a documentary but there are huge credibility gaps. The set-up of his racism, emerging out of an ageing white America paradigm, isn't convincing. The stereotyping banter between Micks and Polacks and Wops seems forced to the point of breaking. Walt's transformation when his experience clashes with his prejudice and, because he's not a stupid ma.n experience teaches him the lessons he needs to learn is predictable and cliched.
It feels like a stage play at times. Funnily enough, however, the final five minutes of this too earnest melodrama are quite affecting. And the song that plays as the credits roll is truly lovely.
Life can be a funny old business, by which I mean odd or surprising rather than comical. And it’s remorseless, by which I mean it just keeps coming at you until one day, I suppose, it will simply stop; life, that is.By that time it will be too late to care.You’ll be done.
Today set off that ‘funny old business’ thought.It seems like quite a day to me but there weren’t hundreds of people dieing in bush fires rampaging through sleepy hollows.The remains of my five-year old son were not found by X-Ray examination inside the gut of a 3-metre crocodile.(I don’t have a son, by the way.Just in case anyone is wondering.) No planes fell out of the sky.Nevertheless, it seemed like quite a day to me.
It began in bed, as most (but not all) days begin.After ten days of thick, dark clouds and never-ending rain there was a clear blue sky.My girlfriend and I lay naked on the bed, the room bathed in sunshine; sleep clouding our eyes, the intermittent trill of the alarm on the phone insisting that we make a move.But it wasn’t simply the unparalleled delight of that situation which made me want to loiter in my adolescent’s idyll.
The world into which I was required to enter once again seemed like an alien place, a potentially hostile environment where I might come under attack, where I would feel it necessary to defend myself.I can fight (if I must).And when I feel that I have no option but to fight, I fight to win.But fighting ... even when the need is forced upon you, even when you win the fight and believe yourself to have been justified in fighting to defend yourself ... takes away a little part of what it is that makes you good.It diminishes you.
So, my day started by being vaguely aware of an alarm in the far-distant background.I became less vaguely aware of my girlfriend’s hand around mine then caressing my arm.That felt good.I felt good.
Almost immediately, however, my consciousness let in the recollection of the papers I’d received at my office at the end of yesterday.A disgruntled … I think disturbed … staff member, departing to another agency, had lodged a formal grievance against me with the Department’s Ethics & Professional Standards Unit.My Director General had written to me with a copy of the claims.I know they’re the bullshit products of a woman who has created her own, imaginary world of grievances against everyone (or mostly everyone) she works alongside.She's boxed herself into a tight corner and I think she believes / hopes no one will see what she has done to herself if she throws a lot of shit over someone else.I’m the biggest target in her ridiculous sights.Shoot the boss.He doesn’t matter because bosses never do.
The whole tedious affair had already sucked out the morale and lightness of our small office world.It's had the effect of mustard gas in no man’s land.I can’t recall an occasion on which I felt more demoralised.All I wanted to do was stay in bed, safe. But that’s never possible; not even desirable really.The world we live in simply doesn’t work like that. So I hauled myself into engagement with the day and with my girlfriend’s support and encouragement got on with the funny old business.
The day took (for me at least) a slightly surreal turn after lunch.We had a robbery at work last week. A staff member (not the woman who has complained about me) is implicated.I’ve been reporting to and taking advice from the manager of our Ethics & Professional Standards Unit.She’s been reporting my actions to our Director General. Naturally, she’s not mentioned a word to me that for the past two weeks she’s been receiving the complaint against me and preparing the paper work for the DG to sign. That’s the paper work I received yesterday, recollection of which nearly ruined my start to today.
So … we have our Council meeting today. The whole staff team is present (except my accuser, who is on very convenient sick leave until her secondment comes through … no need to face the consequence of your own maliciousness when you’re ‘sick’.) Shortly before the Director General arrives for his once in eighteen months meeting with our Council, the staff member who’s implicated in the robbery is called out to be taken away by the police to be interviewed then charged.I’ll have to report that fact to the Ethics manager who will report it to the DG who has just come through the door 18 hours after I received his letter about the allegations against me, including the paper work prepared by the Ethics manager I’ll update on progress with the robbery inquiry when our meeting closes after the DG finishes his spiel. By the time I get to speak to the Ethics manager she’s discussed with the DG, who has just returned to his office from our meeting, what she expects to be told by me.When we speak, me and the Ethics manager agree that our circumstances are somewhat different from ordinary.
And now I’m at home, alone at the end of this bizarre day.(There’s been more to the day to add complexity but they’re just details so why waste effort recalling them?)
I’ve spoken on the phone with my girlfriend, which always lifts my spirits.She’s back at her parents’ place in the country.Among other topics, we talked about the stars that she could see above her: Orion, the Southern Cross, the millions in the Milky Way.I’m listening to one of her CDs – Ya! by Felpeyu.And I’m writing …writing no more than this inconsequential tale (of no interest to almost everybody except me).But I’m writing, so that’s constructive.
My day ends well enough.It started brilliantly with the lightest of touches registering in my sleepy head.Everything in between is what it is: the funny old business called life.
... and still the music makes you think that a man can change, live out his dreams; realise his ambitions. The reality may be different, of course. You know, Gerry Rafferty still earns $120,000 a year in royalties from Baker Street but he seems not to have escaped his demons and the bottle. Let's hope he does. But our dreams don't die. That saxophone cries out to us still. Anything is possible it seems to tell us; not easy, maybe not even likely but always possible so ... give up the booze and the one-night stands ... and keep at it. .
I am, it seems, a man who sits alone at home on a Friday night, surfing the Internet; a hot red wheat bag on his sore left shoulder. Three minutes in a microwave oven, apparently, and relief can be yours. Silly old fool.
Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots Dis poetry is designed fe rantin Dance hall style, big mouth chanting, Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep Preaching follow me Like yu is blind sheep, Dis poetry is not Party Political Not designed fe dose who are critical. Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed It gets into me dreadlocks It lingers around me head Dis poetry goes wid me as I pedal me bike I've tried Shakespeare, respect due dere But did is de stuff I like.
Dis poetry is not afraid of going ina book Still dis poetry need ears fe hear an eyes fe hav a look Dis poetry is Verbal Riddim, no big words involved An if I hav a problem de riddim gets it solved, I've tried to be more romantic, it does nu good for me So I tek a Reggae Riddim an build me poetry, I could try be more personal But you've heard it all before, Pages of written words not needed Brain has many words in store, Yu could call dis poetry Dub Ranting De tongue plays a beat De body starts skanking, Dis poetry is quick an childish Dis poetry is fe de wise an foolish, Anybody can do it fe free, Dis poetry is fe yu an me, Don't stretch yu imagination Dis poetry is fe de good of de Nation, Chant, In de morning I chant In de night I chant In de darkness An under de spotlight, I pass thru University I pass thru Sociology An den I got a dread degree In Dreadfull Ghettology.
Dis poetry stays wid me when I run or walk An when I am talking to meself in poetry I talk, Dis poetry is wid me, Below me an above, Dis poetry's from inside me It goes to yu WID LUV.
My shoulder aches. It has been sore for about a week now. I must have strained or pulled a muscle but I don't know how or where or when.
Spike bought a hot water bottle today and a jar of tiger balm, some of which she massaged into my skin this afternoon. I felt much better afterwards, although I may have smelled like the armpit of a sumo wrestler. That's a small price to pay if the pain eases.
Iffy shoulders are pretty close the the last problem a C5/6 quad needs to encounter.
So ... getting the problems out of the way first of all: it's dated; misanthropic; misogynist; has frankly unacceptable portrayals of the one female and all the black characters; its world view is, to say the least, gloomy and its psychology is a bit too Freudian for my tastes. And the story, to be honest, is a bit naff ... almost superfluous (which the author might not see as a huge problem).
Nevertheless, it is quite a compelling read. The imagery is captivating, striking at times. Surrealist painting clearly informs much of the writing and the text, only 175 pages long, is worth dipping into just for that imagery (absurd at times but, you know, it's surrealism ... which I can take or leave in many of its manifestations).
The Drowned World is sort of The Day Of The Triffids meets Heart Of Darkness meets Dante's Inferno meets Max Ernst, Salvador Dali and a Belgian painter, Pierre Delvaux, I've never heard of. I first read it when I was 14 or 15 years old; re-read it for the book club tonight and didn't think I'd wasted my time. I don't share the author's nihilistic world view but I did enjoy the rich texture of his writing. One could almost touch the mad jungle, smell the lagoon and feel the heat of that sun on your skin.
I really enjoyed the evening, joined as I was by Spike. The gallery folk are lovely, full of enthusiasm for their art and literature / cheese and wine evening and very bright.
Australia has witnessed one of its worst natural disasters as the official death toll caused by the Victorian bushfires stands at 130 people. The death toll exceeds those of Black Friday in 1939 and Ash Wednesday in 1983. There are 31 fires still burning across Victoria. At least 750 homes have been destroyed – 550 of those in Kinglake, north of Melbourne, and in surrounding areas.
A number of DADHC staff have indicated they would like to make a donation to help those affected. As DADHC’s Workplace Giving donation facility is currently under construction, details on how you can donate are listed below:
Visit www.redcross.org.au Phone 1800 811 700 Go to any NAB, ANZ, Westpac or Commonwealth Bank branch Donate at any Bunnings store Direct deposit to the Victorian Bushfire Relief Fund - BSB 082-001, Account number 860-046-797 Give blood - The Australian Red Cross Blood service is encouraging people to donate blood. For your nearest donor centre visit www.donateblood.com.au or call 13 14 95 to make an appointment.
I hope that we can all contribute to assisting those in need at this devastating time.
Mine came from Woolworth's (I borrowed this image from someone called Kim, here). If anything, mine was darker ... charcoal might be a more accurate description. I suppose the apple and plum I ate instead are better for me.
My dark pizza just goes to prove that this man, at least, is not crash hot at multi-tasking ... watch the oven do its baking thing Douglas or catch up on work e.mails. Don't try both at once because that's obviously way too much for a simple man like you to handle!
How could a man count up his losses as if they were sheep called up to ease the terrors of an unimaginative insomniac, one with a wool fetish, perhaps, and too much time to fritter away on idle thoughts and figments; possibilities that might have been but never were and never could be?
Do you weigh them in a cosmic balance, totting up the gains against the losses
as if there might be a single answer:
forty-two, rosebud, pi, the square
of the hypotenuse or Tom Doniphon?
The trouble is you have to know
the question you need or want to ask
and then be brave enough to listen
while the unimagniable universe talks,
wholly indifferent at the best of times
to hollow men with less time left than
they realise ... and egos bigger by far
than the national debt of Mexico.
Even then, all you might discover is who it was that shot Liberty Valance. .
So, the office was burgled in the dead of night. Is there some burglar school in this day and age where the Professor of Thieving forgets to mention CCTV in secure buildings? If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I would never have believed it. Can a human being truly be quite that stupid? Seems so ...
there is always that space there just before they get to us that space that fine relaxer the breather while say flopping on a bed thinking of nothing or say pouring a glass of water from the spigot while entranced by nothing
that gentle pure space
it's worth
centuries of existence
say
just to scratch your neck while looking out the window at a bare branch
that space there before they get to us ensures that when they do they won't get it all
If, as must be clear, I have forgotten how to pray, ................................................Oh Lord, forgive me that these words, which here I say, seem crude to you and sound so awkward in their presentation of this late display.
An invocation: my entreaty for your word, your act, your deed; some chance to stay the paltry moment when the flesh, in discord with the spirit’s longing now to set out on its way - perhaps back home like some enchanted bird no longer tied to nature’s willful disarray - cries out for more: the sunrise of a bright new day, cries out for more: the chance to be still heard, cries out for more: the end, for now, deferred. .
I have no dout that Yarramalong, inland of Wyong on the NSW Central Coast, is a lovely little village. I might even choose to visit the sleepy little hamlet one day ... in daylight.
The first sign that I can be as stupid as all the coots of Centennial Park's ponds standing in a single column of stupid coots, each coot balancing on the shoulders of the coot beneath it (if coots have shoulders) came when I passed the sign for Yarramalong Public School, established in 1870 (see pretty picture).
I'm sure that if I'd actually known what I was doing at two-thirty a.m., as I drove the Transit van farther and farther along the Yarramalong Road towards the dead ends at Cedar Bush Creek and Ravensdale (both north-west of my initial point of departure ... Spike's parents' place in Dooralong) I would have seen SOME SIGN that I was travelling 18.4 KMS IN THE WRONG DIRECTION for a man who was trying to head south-east in search of the freeway to Sydney. Dickhead. That'll be a 40 kms round trip in the dark and misty conditions of a winding, undulating country road, which are simply THE BEST CONDITIONS imaginable for a quad with hand controls to drive his clapped-out, 14 year old, petrol powered automatic Ford panel van. So there's an hour of my life I'll never see again.
My defence is that I think there's a sign missing at the junction of Yarramalong Road and Old Maitland Road, when you're heading south. Travelling north along OMR you reach the T-junction at YR. A giant green sign points to Yarramalong. Another giant greet sign points to Dooralong. These signs confirm the easy to follow instruction's I'd received by SMS to guide my first visit to Spike's parents' place ... take the Wyong turn-off then it's LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT. That makes the return trip easy peasy ... RIGHT, RIGHT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT.
Aha ...
Heading south there is no sign announcing FREEWAY THIS WAY - YOU DIP STICK. No green sign at all. There's a little blue and white sign, which reads Old Maitland Road (like that helps anyone without Google maps in their 1984 Transit van with 156,000 miles on the clock). And there's a BIG GREEN SIGN announcing FREEWAY JUNCTION 2KMS but that sign appears half a kilometre AFTER the turn-off ... so that's slightly less than wholly helpful to a man who was looking for the turn-off BEFORE he reached it in case, in his tiredness, inexperience, the dark, the mist and late-night / early morning uncertainty of the drive he missed the turn-off.
Got home at 4:30 a.m. In bed by the time dawn had broken and the birds were singing. Still, nothing could detract from a wonderful Saturday afternoon and evening with Spike at the Leonard Cohen concert in Pokolbin; nothing. .
"What is essential? It's one of the great questions of life, and, as I've suggested, it's a question that crops up in other adaptations than artistic ones. The text is human society and the human self, in isolation or in groups, the essence to be preserved is a human essence, and the result is the pluralist, hybridised, mixed-up world in which we all now live."
