The Chat 3: The colour of magic...

[If you haven't already done so, you really should read the "READ IT FIRST" entry below.]


Sunday evening. The rain has come and gone, lowering the temperature in passing.

I'd not intended visiting the Campfire tonight as it's not to be a regular activity, but the cleansing rain, a half-bottle of red left over from two nights ago, a rare non-nauseous few hours, along with a slightly comforting bout of melancholia had me reaching for my fountain pen. (Yes, I often rough draft before typing. Believe it or not.)

I spent yesterday at Mum's, cleaning out and re-organising Dad's shed. It's almost a year since he died and I am finding it less difficult to approach such tasks. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Mum is not finding it less difficult.

In addition to all that, by fortuitous accident I discovered the music of Ludovico Einaudi. I think it is incidental music for movies, but it is wonderful to listen to on evenings such as this. 

(Flicking iTunes open and buying and downloading the music in a matter of minutes is still a disconcerting experience for me. I needed (OK, wanted) to know what Jerome K. Jerome had written besides Three Men in a Boat, and it was the simplest of tasks to type a few words into a search engine. I needed wanted all the words that rhymed with "tamed", so instead of dragging out my ancient rhyming dictionary, I looked it up online. It's hard not to feel guilty about this, and to just accept it as a useful development. Even so, I have this nagging feeling... So many "useful developments" have not proven entirely beneficial. eg mobile phones.)

Anyway, the colour of magic...

For some reason, in November 1985 I bought a small paperback. Perhaps it was the odd description on the front cover: "Jerome K. Jerome meets Lord of the Rings". I paid $4.95, new.

The name of this little gem was The Colour of Magic, by someone called Terry Pratchett.

Now, 33 years and 40 Discworld novels later, I've begun reading Pratchett's final Discworld novel, The Shepherd's Crown. (It's his final writing of any sort, as he died of a type of dementia just as he finished it. But you knew that.)

Esteemed Spouse bought it for me in December 2015, but knowing that it was published posthumously and that one of Pratchett's most well-loved characters dies in the book, as well as certain personal circumstances, all made me hesitant to read it.

Now, though, I've started.

And it is all I'd feared and hoped.

I'm only up to Chapter Three. The death has already occurred. I've quickly fallen back into the gentle rip of Pratchett's humour and been drawn out well beyond my depth. And... and...

Here is where the Campfire provides its inexplicable comfort...

I found myself crying, not at the death of the author, nor of the character; not at the humour nor the story...

I think I cry because of who I was in November 1985 and who I am now... and the years that have passed and the fact that there are now more behind than in front of me... and how I have failed Esteemed Spouse in so many ways... and how our dreams and plans have become so tenuous... and the merest, briefest, fleeting, flitting thought of my mortality chokes me into a claustrophobic press, forces me to take the deepest breath to stave off sobs and screams...

"You've got to live your life!" spat my brother-in-law recently, and had I not been the sober one of us I would have told him to go fuck himself because he had no idea. But I didn't.

Nights like this I wonder whether I'm too old for nights like this.

Poetry 1: The House Was Quiet (Wallace Stevens)

[If you haven't already done so, you really should read the "READ IT FIRST" entry below.]
 
Esteemed Spouse is at Beauty and the Beast with some friends; I am at home with the dog.

I quite enjoy occasional solitude. In an empty house no-one will raise their eyebrows when I start reading aloud. And poetry, as we all know, must be read aloud.

My book tonight is Domestic Interiors by Fiona Wright. I've heard her speak a few times, so I read silently first, imagining her voice, then read aloud in my own creaking whisper. Such luxury.

The poem below is not by Wright, but describes my evening perfectly.

Wallace Stevens

The House Was Quiet

The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.

The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,

Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be

The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:

The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,

In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself

Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

The Chat 2: Our books

[If you haven't already done so, you really should read the "READ IT FIRST" entry below.]

 • • • • •

These early entries are a bit tentative. I am still experimenting. Hopefully I'll remember what it takes to build a decent campfire and its light will then be a strong enough beacon to attract and then reward an audience - moths to a flame, so to speak, but without the conflagrant consequences.

• • • • •

It's too wet and blustery here in SYD to light our fire this evening, as much as our mood may crave the bleak atmosphere. So, our meagre clan squeezes into my study, shoulders rubbing unknown shoulders, knees pressed against unaccustomed knees.

We are insulated from the autumn air by straining bookcases on all four walls, though a large window in one wall looks out on a bushy front yard and a quiet and darkening suburb. The wine - Domain "Black Tongue" Shiraz (2011) - is a particularly good one and, thanks to the ethereal nature of the Campfire, it will last us until late into the night, no matter how many glasses or cups are quaffed by those here present.

Although the folk who sit at the Campfire are all impeccably polite, as each one enters I see their eyes roam judgementally over my library. There is not one among us who does not judge others by the books on their shelves - I would not have it any other way. As for people who have no books in their house, I refuse to believe that they exist except as characters in a Stephen King short story.

Years ago I was invited to the house of a colleague who lived in the mountains. She was a fair bohemian and always smelled of roses, so of course I had a crush on her. Everything about her house, right down to the rugs and cushions on her lounge, seemed to be from my dreams of an ideal home. And when I saw her bookcases I was entirely unnerved, because they so closely mirrored mine that I was convinced I had met a soul-mate. Ah, the power of books. Of course, like all mountain spirits, she has since vanished among the eucalypts.

I was bemoaning to a neighbour the decline in mailed correspondence - no-one writes letters any more - and that fact that I have to buy some of my books on-line, just to keep our lovely postman employed. That's the kind of considerate person I am. Proof of this sits on the shelves before you this evening. My most recent book purchase: five volumes from the immense Everman's Library, Pocket Poets subsection.

Haiku, Sonnets, Zen Poems, Villanelles and Solitude. My poetry shelves are so full, as you see, these newcomers must perch precariously. However, they are close at hand and are such pleasant editions that I find myself reaching for one at various times when I should be more seriously employed. Lovely!


But now,  I fear that I may be over-running my allotted wordage. After all, as well as a seeming inability to write letters, folk have also lost the ability to read more than a couple of paragraphs. Apparently there is even an internet correspondence application that actually restricts people to a limited amount of characters, so that their writing is no more than a couple of lines long. God help us if that is true! Soon everyone will be communicating like that; world leaders may address issues of Great Significance in tiny twittering non-sentences, thereby signalling, not statesman-like leadership, but the end of civilisation as we know it!

Anyway, I should stop now in case I overburden my reader(s). If you've had the fortitude to reached this far, do say so in a comment.

The Chat 1: Campfire horror stories

[If you haven't already done so, you really should read the "READ IT FIRST" entry below.]

Last Tuesday, while reading W. Somerset Maugham's writing journal (well someone has to) I realised that over the past year or so I’ve had little humour in my life. Joy, I have in (relative) abundance, but there can be two or even three days at a time when I do not laugh. There may be a vaguely amused smile at someone else’s misfortune, or a quiet harrumph during some insipidly harmless TV program, such as QI. Helen Garner’s description of herself “as a small grim figure with a notebook and a cold” was amusing at the time, as were many of Kate Llewellyn’s exploits as a septuagenarian gardener, but reading is sort of humour at a distance, vicarious fun.

It is a strange sensation, to not laugh.

There have been moments, of course, which at the time were not entirely pleasant but, when recalled from the safety of the future, provide amusement. Perhaps we smile at what we survive…

Having had an arterial stent inserted a couple of years back and my first BCC hacked out of my back some months ago, I thought it might be jolly fun to see about the recurring aching pain in my groin. It had been getting worse over the last few weeks, to the point that our long morning walks were now difficult and I could not sleep for the last couple of nights. Though I regularly vow to never do so, of course I had consulted Dr Google, who informed me I had testicular cancer, kidney stones, bladder infections and/or a sexually transmitted disease. How humorous!

The GP I have been seeing for the past 30 years is my age and is sidling towards retirement. Consequently he is often absent. Lazy bastard. Recently I’ve been going to an excellent young female Asian doctor who is interested in heart problems. However, this pain was nowhere near my heart and not something with which to burden a young woman, so I was left with Dr d’Millo, a small Pakistani gent with wild eyes and an enthusiastic gait. After I’d described my symptoms, he donned the Blue Gloves of Terror and proceeded to examine my, um, groinal area. He thought the pain might be caused by a hernia and advised an ultrasound. I was happy enough with this, as it was so much better than the alternatives I’d been imagining.

Down here in SYD we often see awful news from a small, south-east Queensland town. The folk involved invariably appear to be emaciated, toothless ex-heroin addicts who have found new joy in ice. Of course, this is probably a horrible stereotype, but that’s the impression we are given by our reliable and totally unsensationalist media. Certainly, whatever the incident – robbery, shooting, car accident, late-returned library book, political scandal, home invasion – the witnesses, the passers-by, the culprit, their legal representatives – all fit that skinny profile.

Now, thanks to the caring policies of our governments, my surburb also has an ample proportion of these “deplorables” in its population. Frightfully shocking to all those blond-haired, blue-eyed Shire folk who believe that local crime is caused by Westies passing through and that anyone north of the Georges River should require a visa before crossing the bridge. On the morning of my ultrasound, a number of these unfortunates had gathered in the imaging centre waiting-room. Filthy plastic thongs clung to distressingly grubby feet; oddly sweat-stained clothes revealed inexpertly executed tattoos on skeletal, scarred and blotchy limbs; greasy, stringy hair fell over tight and angry faces. They all seemed to be preoccupied with their shiny mobile phones, although I noticed that a couple were staring vacantly at the floor while their thumbs twitched around the phone screen. One man constantly gnawed at his blackened finger-nails and, as not once did he spit out the bits, I assume he swallowed them.
Dressed in my leather sandals, Mambo shirt, Sportscraft shorts and carrying a man-bag, I was totally ignored, which surprised and relieved me. Let the fun begin!

Nabil was the lucky radiologist to draw my card. (The others – both female – were a mature, primary school librarian type and a flibbity, very young Asian.)

The youthful Nabil neither met my eyes nor shook my hand as I entered his darkened room. Given the task ahead and how soon it was after breakfast he had to perform it, I cannot blame him for wanting to get it over with. I was of much the same mind.

All in all, the procedure went as well as could be expected, with a minimum of fondling. I focused on the pinging machine and restrained my urge to chat with Nabil about how George Costanza might have coped in my situation. I could count on the fingers of one warm hand the number of people with whom I have had such an intimate relationship. Nothing in Nabil’s manner indicated that he was aware of his belonging to this exclusive club, which is probably just as well.

Thankfully it was over soon enough, even a tad sooner because Nabil had saved time by not bothering to warm the lubricating gel – a point on which I will mark him down in my Trip Adviser (Sub-section: Medical Imagery) review. He passed me one of those shiny towels, designed and manufactured in Indonesia by a chap who believes that in these circumstances infidels deserve nothing more absorbent than a plastic bag. I mopped myself as quickly as I could, without having too much fun, and quickly dressed. Tucking my shirt in, I discovered a large blob of lubricant. For some reason it had been just under my rib-cage, but was now smeared, slimy and cold, across my abdomen. Perhaps young Nabil had a sense of humour after all. He strode busily from the room.

As I left, I passed a new emaciated ice-addict pacing the waiting room, sobbing and muttering, “I want to go home. I want to go.” She was being ignored by the others, who continued their numb staring at the floor or their phones.

And the up-shot? Well, proving that there is indeed humour in my life – God’s own sense of humour – the ultrasound showed I do have a hernia. As he went through the results, Dr d’Millo, his wild eyes becoming wider and wilder, explained in colourful detail what could happen if I did not have surgery to correct the problem.

Laugh? Oh, I laughed until I stopped.

READ THIS FIRST

Hello there. It's been a while. You may not recognise me. It's dark anyway, and the fire creates shadows on our faces that disguise our daylight features. It's probably just as well.

For the last few days I've been deliberating how to re-start this blog. I decided against erasing the entries of its previous renderings. I'm upset that so much stuff, from so many good people, has been lost when various blogs and blog-sites faded away. (eg 20six).

I'm not sure what form this will eventually take, but I plan to have a few types of entries:

• The Chat, in which I'll rabbit on about anything. This is one of those.

• Poetry, of course. You can just skip that if it's not your taste, but don't tell me or I might make you drink out of one of the old cups instead of a wine glass.

• The Emperor's New Clothes (If you don't recognise the significance of that title, look it up and read.)

• Mustn't Grumble - with a nod to Chas and Dave. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9S9_TpFSwo

That's the plan, anyway.

For our international visitors, I'll refrain from translating Oz-English. This may make your visits occasionally challenging, but it could also provide opportunities for unintended humour. (eg my use of the word "thongs" in the next entry.)

For everyone else, especially younger English teachers and poets, I intend to stick to my pretentious, purply prose and ignore good modern writing. More on that later, perhaps.

Rather than fiddle-duck around, my first chat at this new campfire will indicate the levels to which this blog may plunge. It's actually a bit out of a letter I'd sent to a friend. He didn't reply, but you should feel free to make comments, especially if you have similar experiences to share.

Now, grab yourself a glass of red - it's over there on the table - and come sit with me here by the fire...