About Me

Thursday, December 13, 2012

the soundtrack of contemporary life




There's a nail in the door
And there's glass on the lawn
Tacks on the floor
And the TV is on
And I always sleep with my guns when you're gone
There's a blade by the bed
And a phone in my hand
A dog on the floor
And some cash on the nightstand
When I'm all alone the dreaming stops
And I just can't stand
What should I do, I'm just a little baby
What if the lights go out
And maybe, and then the wind just starts to moan
Outside the door he followed me home
So goodnight moon, I want the sun
If it's not here soon
I might be done
No it won't be too soon 'til I say goodnight moon
There's a shark in the pool
And a witch in the tree
A crazy old neighbor and he's been watching me
And there's footsteps loud and strong coming down the hall
Something's under the bed
Now it's out in the hedge
There's a big black crow sitting on my window ledge
And I hear something scratching through the wall
What should I do I'm just a little baby
What if the lights go out
And maybe I just hate to be all alone, outside the door he followed me home
So goodnight moon
I want the sun
If it's not here soon
I might be done
No it won't be too soon 'til I say goodnight moon

Goodnight Moon, Shivaree

What separates the Wise Virgin de nos jours from the Foolish – a nail in the door and glass on the lawn, tacks on the floor and the TV on, sleeping with her guns and a blade by the bed, a phone in the hand, a dog on the floor, and some cash on the nightstand. In other words, preparedness for every eventuality. 'Twas ever thus.

(Which reminds me: must bring the Princess – and the Begum – up to scratch on their marksmanship, and their blade work. Unsuitable suitors are bound to begin circling soon, and I can't man all the gates by myself.)

life lessons that are priceless – publishing companies run by their marketing departments


Pogo, Walt Kelly

life of riley


One doesn’t want to sound flippant about unemployment. But there are circumstances – un certain âge, a long tax-paying career, an eternity of service (I almost wrote servitude) for the same company – which make it possible to face it with at least a measure of equanimity.

Certainly after 38 years in harness (or a staggering 51 if one counts the years of school, which I do), it feels extraordinarily liberating to suddenly be facing days of leisure such as have been the stuff of dreams for all that time.

On the other hand, it is with some trepidation that one realizes it is now time to take up those things – drawing and painting, designing and building a small rowing boat, planting a vegetable patch – which have so far been postponed for “when I grow up”.

We’ll see how I get along as a grown up. For the moment – and I hope I don’t live to regret saying this – the relief is immense.

Friday, June 1, 2012

the soundtrack of long life



We have been told that white stands for purity.
I've heard it whispered, the fair are of God.
Someone said colours are all in a rainbow.
I'm saying to you there are some they forgot.

Down in the gutter I heard someone crying.
Also heard laughter to add to the role.
That's the confusion and pain that I'm feeling.
Reach for my hand and I'll give you my soul.

Thinking's a headache, that's why we avoid it.
Thought reveals truth and the pain of the facts.
Now I see rainbows of many more colours.
Beauty is red, yellow, pink, brown, and black.

A Word About Colour, Julie Driscoll, Brian Auger and The Trinity

A very sixties sort of song, from when the World was young and innocent.

life lessons that are priceless – survival in the corporate world


«That evening, Mr Salter, foreign editor of The Beast, was summoned to dinner at his chief’s country seat at East Finchley.
[…]
Mr Salter’s side of the conversation was limited to expressions of assent. When Lord Copper was right he said, “Definitely, Lord Copper”; when he was wrong, “Up to a point”.
“Let me see, what’s the name of the place I mean? Capital of Japan? Yokohama, isn’t it?”
“Up to a point, Lord Copper.”
“And Hong Kong belongs to us, doesn’t it?”
“Definitely, Lord Copper.”»

Scoop, Evelyn Waugh

life on another hill – multiculturalism


A greenfinch and a goldfinch companionably passing the time of day on a pine branch outside the Fool’s office window. Apologies for the lack of quality of the photograph – it was taken through a dusty pane of “arithmetically” sealed (as they say) double glazing, the windows in these modern offices being non-opening in order, no doubt, to prevent people from jumping out out of sheer despondency.

Monday, May 21, 2012

the soundtrack of contemporary life




When the rain came down, I was older than the earth
I could die right now, and plan another birth
Anytime I choose
I am in peace, in love, in harmony when the rain comes

When the rain came down, I was standing in the green
My soul was touched by every tree that my eyes could see
I am in peace, in love, in harmony when the rain comes down

When the rain came down, melded with my tears
When the rain came down, float away their fears
When the rain came down, bigger than the sea
When the rain came down, then came me

When the rain came down, there was no one else around
I could feel my feet being swallowed by the ground
Every step I take, I am life, I am life

When the rain came down, melded with my tears
When the rain came down, float away their fears
When the rain came down, bigger than the sea
When the rain came down, then came me

When the rain came down – Happy Rhodes

life lessons that are priceless – better awake

«Instantly Myrtle looked away, and I knew that I had made a mistake. I was being found lacking in romance. I held her close to me. “Poor Myrtle”, I thought; “and poor me as well.” I went on holding her close till I ceased to be found lacking in romance.

Saturday afternoon passed like a dream – in fact much more satisfactorily than any dream I have ever had. Men can say what they like about dreams. Better awake, is my motto.»

Scenes from Provincial Life, William Cooper

life on the hill (II)

I always knew I wanted a garden. More than that, some space to plant trees. And box hedges.

The smell of box and fresh water on granite has been with me since, as a child, I spent whole days playing with boats (made of cork, with chicken and duck feathers for sails, and shaped tin plates for keels and rudders – brilliant) on the pond at Grandmother’s house.

I have a very early memory of slowly bending over the water and laying my cheek against the surface, trying not to disturb the absolutely clear reflection of the boats and the trees and the house on the absolutely still water. And staying like that for a while, just breathing in the smells. If I were asked for some definition of pure happiness I might well pick this – trees are in it (a great big ash providing a caressing, flickering shade); boats are in it; a beloved house is in it; close family is in it.

So I have long known of the spell of gardens. But even then I was unprepared for how much the first years of pottering around the Hill have provided a sense of peacefulness and perspective to life in these troubled times.

I would not claim to be engaging in contemplation – fools and contemplation make uneasy bedfellows. And it is hard to be contemplative when finding oneself on hands and knees, clawing at the parched earth in search of a lost drip-watering pipe, with brambles dragging at one’s feet and lethal pine needles reaching for one’s eyes.

But – in the time-honoured fashion of old men and fools – I do often find myself talking to myself. The great attraction of this is not, of course, that momentous debates are engaged in, or a solution to the problems of the world addressed, let alone arrived at.

No, the attraction is that no such conversation is ever subject to misunderstanding; or immediate contradiction; or turns from a simple talk to a heated argument at the drop of a hat, leaving one wondering at where the hat was dropped. Rather it’s made of frequent mutual pats on the back, and “what a clever man we are, my dear Fool”, and “I couldn’t agree more”, and “you make me laugh”, and “we must do this more often”.



That, and hard manual labour, and, by necessity, a life much more closely attuned to the seasons and the weather – I am forever praying for rain –, have all made a contribution that cannot be overestimated towards restoring a sense of peace (that word again) and of the truly important things in life.



Sometimes I just feel like lying back under a tree on top of the hill and going to sleep. I have only refrained from doing so for fear of attracting the vultures. Or frightening the other Hill dwellers.

Friday, April 13, 2012

the soundtrack of contemporary life



Alabama, Arkansas, I do love my Ma & Pa
Not the way that I do love you

Holy moley, me-oh-my, you're the apple of my eye
Girl, I’ve never loved one like you

Man, oh man, you’re my best friend,
I scream it to the nothingness
There ain’t nothin’ that I need

Well, hot & heavy, pumpkin pie,
chocolate candy, Jesus Christ
There ain’t nothin’ pleases me more than you

Ahh, Home
Let me come Home
Home is wherever I’m with you (2x)

La la la la, take me Home
Baby, I’m coming Home

I’ll follow you into the park,
through the jungle, through the dark
Girl, I’ve never loved one like you

Moats & boats & waterfalls,
alley ways & pay phone calls
I’ve been everywhere with you

That’s true

We laugh until we think we’ll die,
barefoot on a summer night
Nothin’ new is sweeter than with you

And in the streets we're running
free like it's only you and me
Geez, you’re somethin' to see.

Ahh, Home
Let me come Home
Home is wherever I’m with you (2x)

La la la la, take me Home
Baby, I’m coming Home

“Jade?”
“Alexander?”
“Do you remember that day you fell out of my window?”
“I sure do, you came jumping out after me.”
“Well, you fell on the concrete
and nearly broke your ass
and you were bleeding all over the place
and I rushed you off to the hospital.
Do you remember that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, there’s something
I never told you about that night.”
“What didn’t you tell me?”
“While you were sitting in the back seat
smoking a cigarette you thought
was going to be your last,
I was falling deep, deeply in love with you
and I never told you ‘til just now.”
“Now I know.”

Ahh, Home
Let me come Home
Home is whenever I’m with you
Ahh, Home
Let me come Home
Home is when I’m alone with you

Home
Let me come Home
Home is wherever I’m with you

Ahh, Home
Yes, I am Home
Home is when I’m alone with you.

Alabama, Arkansas, I do love my Ma & Pa
Moats & boats & waterfalls & pay phone calls

Ahh, Home
Let me come Home
Home is wherever I’m with you
Ahh, Home
Let me come Home
Home is when I’m alone with you

Home, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

life lessons that are priceless – obsession

«Waking or sleeping, I dream of boats – usually of rather small boats under a slight press of sail. When I think how great a part of my life has been spent dreaming the hours away and how much of this total dream life has concerned small craft, I wonder about the state of my health, for I am told that it is not a good sign to be always voyaging into unreality, driven by imaginary breezes.

[But] If a man must be obsessed by something, I suppose a boat is as good as anything, perhaps a bit better than most.»



“The Sea and the Wind that Blows”, in Essays of E. B. White, Elwyn Brooks White

life on the hill – a potted history

In the beginning was the View.

Towards the south, there’s Eugaria on the left, Colares on the right and, smack in front, seemingly the whole mountain. From the top of the hill, the sea on the western horizon, Palácio da Pena on the eastern, and glimpses of houses here and there, like jewells on the greenery.


The real-estate agent showed it to us more or less in desperation, after we had successively turned our noses up at her complete portfolio of apparently more desirable plots in the pine forest at the bottom of the hill. «I suppose there’s another one I can show you», she finally huffed. «Up there …» – Dismissively, probably hoping to get rid of us and to return to more lucrative clients.

And she brought us to the Hill.

At first we didn't understand it, kept waiting for the catch – to be shown some dank spot behind a wall, for instance, or a bog on the northern slope with no view and no sun exposure. But she waved her arm and said “This is it”.

“It” was a long, narrow strip of land straddling the hill north to south. And we couldn’t believe it.




It was what we’d been looking for all along. An unimpeded view. Size enough (just under the proverbial “acre of land”) to plant trees, of which there were very few. Isolation enough to give one the illusion of being in the country.

That there was a small run-down vineyard only added to the charm (the road at the northern edge is Alto das Vinhas – Vineyard Heights –, and indeed there remain a few here and there in neighbouring plots).

The catch would come. But at that moment, for the moment, our cup was full. That was in 1999.

Friday, February 3, 2012

the soundtrack of contemporary life



We’ll go jumble sailing,
out when the weather is fine
We’ll go jumble sailing,
you never know what we’ll find
We’ll be just like two millionaires,
going out on a spree
We’ll know that it won’t break the bank
‘cos it’s only 10 p

We’ll go jumble sailing,
out when the weather is fine
We’ll go jumble sailing,
you never know what we’ll find

Who knows all the odd little things
that will sail into view
I may find an odd little thing
that reminds me of you
I see so many people turn their noses up
at all the treasure we find
It’s sad, they don’t know what they’re missing,
but well, we’ll just have to leave them behind

We’ll go jumble sailing
out when the weather is fine
We’ll go jumble sailing,
you never know what we’ll find

Maybe find a small souvenir
or a thing we can use
Maybe a hat or a scarf
or some second-hand shoes
Maybe, either way this is one lucky dip
we can’t lose
When we go jumble sailing
off into the blue

Jumble Sailing, Clearlake

life lessons that are priceless – the subjective truth

«Lata tried to imagine the nuptial room. Presumably it would be fragrant with tuberoses; that, at least, was Malati’s confident opinion. I’ll always associate tuberoses with Pran, Lata thought. It was not at all pleasant to follow her imagination further. That Savita would be sleeping with Pran tonight did not bear thinking of. It did not strike her as being at all romantic. Perhaps they would be too exhausted, she thought optimistically.
“What are you thinking of, Lata?”, asked her mother.
“Oh, nothing, Ma”, said Lata automatically.
“You turned up your nose. I saw it.”
Lata blushed.
“I don’t think I ever want to get married,” she said emphatically.
Mrs. Rupa Mehra was too wearied by the wedding, too exhausted by emotion, too cumbered with congratulations, too overwrought, in short, to do anything but stare at Lata for ten seconds.
[…]
Now that the tears were running down her cheeks, Mrs. Rupa Mehra transferred them fluidly from one daughter to the other. She clasped Savita to her bosom and wept loudly. “You must write to me, Savita darling”, she said. “You must write to me every day from Simla. Pran, you are like my own son now, you must be responsible and see to it. Soon I will be all alone in Calcutta – all alone.”
This was of course quite untrue. Arun and Varun and Meenakshi and Aparna would all be crowded together with her in Arun’s little flat in Sunny Park. But Mrs Rupa Mehra was one who believed with unformulated but absolute conviction in the paramountcy of subjective truth over objective.»

A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth

liturgical life

Tomorrow is the Feast of the Fool’s namesake saint. He was born in Friesland and the founder of a monastery called Mariëngaarde in 1163. I like the Friesian connection – puts one in mind of mysterious fogs and dangerous plots and daring adventures.

I was once told that the saint’s name meant Peace Loving, which I always hesitated between taking as an in-built predisposition towards wisdom — and therefore A Good Thing — or just namby pamby. Now I hear it means Peaceful Ruler instead, a subtle but important difference, and a meaning I can embrace with no ambivalence – no matter how far it continually proves to be from the reality of my days (the “ruler” bit especially).

And Mary’s Garden (or Mary’s Orchard, as I’m told it can also be translated) is a better candidate than Coney Island for a name for the House, certainly one that bodes better for the future of the plantations on the Hill.

It is also the third anniversary of the Fool’s father’s death, an unhappier connotation, but one which has mellowed with time. I no longer carry my copies of The Spectator for weeks in the back seat of my car, waiting for the next time we meet and I can give them to him to read.

Happy St. Frederick's Day