Love Tove Jansson

These paragraphs from "The Spring Tune" out of Tales from Moomin Valley get me every time:

"It's the right evening for a tune, Snufkin thought. A new tune, one part expectation, two parts spring sadness, and for the rest, just the great delight of walking alone and liking it.
He had kept this tune under his hat for several days, but hadn't quite dared to take it out yet. It had to grow into a kind of happy conviction. Then, he would simply have to put his lips to the mouth organ, and all the notes would jump instantly into their places.
If he released them too soon they might get stuck crossways and make only half a good tune, or he might lose them altogether and never be in the right mood to get hold of them again. Tunes are serious things, especially if they have to be jolly and sad at the same time.
But this evening Snufkin felt rather sure of his tune. It was there, waiting, nearly full grown - and it was going to be the best he ever made.
Then, when he arrived in Moominvalley, he'd sit on the bridge and play it, and Moomintroll would say at once:  That's a good one.  Really a good one."

Well, my trio of literary followers... do you feel like that when you write?

If you liked the image the rest of the story is even better. Get the book.  I've also always been fond of "The Fillyjonk who was afraid of Disasters", "A Tale of Horror" and... heck all the rest of the tales in it.

2010 read of the year

My favourite book this year would have to have been Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins.

I know, I know I'm a bit behind the times. This book was first published in 1984.  But I often feel it's rude to chase after a book, and prefer to read them when they come to me.  This particular book was pressed into my hand, along with a bundle of others (which included my close-second best read for the year: The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, by Haruki Murakami), as the lender urged me to understand that these were her favourite books ever and I just had to read them.  Now... (private rant) there's nothing more rude when somebody presses a book in your hand in that manner than not to have read it by the time you next see them, or at least to have made a serious attempt to have done so.

The number of books that I might as well have given away in this way (it is rude to ask for them back if they haven't been read now, isn't it?) bah...! But I digress...

I'm a sucker for stories about immortality,  (I think watching The Highlander at an impressionable age set that off) and those that hint on some level just beneath reality where things are interconnected (the Murakami book I mentioned might have more to do with that comment). It's not that I necessarily want to live forever like the characters in these books, but the idea of in one existence witnessing any of a bunch of exciting moments in history appeals to me.  It's for that reason I also like John Masefield's Box of Delights, even though as a story it's a really odd shape. Imagine living to see Beethoven play and to see the Great Wall being used for what it was built. 

In Jitterbug Perfume the hero Alobar does neither of those things, but he and his partner discover a method for extending life which enables them to outlive civilisations.  In that time Alobar, an "eater of beets", among other things stays in a Tibetan monastery, lives in sixteenth(?) century Paris, and eventually moves to the New World taking time out on occasion to consort (my euphemism) with nymphs in the company of the god Pan.

It is the type of book which throws itself at you with the sort of force that makes you think it encompasses more than it actually does. It is a wild, fun and memorable ride, but I'd have to say one I'd only take once.  In the same way a ghost train in a visiting carnival is thrilling the first time, but on subsequent rides you start to notice the light bulb inside the skull or the rusty hinge on which the terrifying spectre swings, I wouldn't want to ruin the experience by putting myself into the position of seeing through anything.  I might read it again, but in a year or two, when the carnival next comes to town.

Before you go running out to read this because I said I liked it, take a wee pause and ask yourself "Am I a prude?"  If you think you might be, click on the link I've put in up top to the wikipedia article about the book.  You'll get a brief summary of the plot and its contents, and if you imagine the subject matter described written with a sort of puerile glee you might get a hint of what you could be getting yourself into.                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

If you like a story so wierd that it requires you to not just suspend, but completely discard disbelief for the duration of your reading, because you know you'll enjoy it all the more for it, ...go out and find a copy.    

Boxing Day

The Queen of Night is busy making her own incense sticks on the floor of her bedroom.  It's eleven o'clock and she should be trying to get to sleep, but since she is genetically incapable of directly following a given suggestion she's doing this instead.  She's happy, even though she's forgotten two things. Firstly, she really should have spread some newspaper on the carpet, and second, she nearly died today.

'Twas the day after Christmas,
we left the tree's lights-on,
packed up our towels,
and drove out to Bright-on...

:)

We got in the car at one-twentyseven, in a bit of a hurry, forgetting the boogie boards and the sunscreen, because we had arranged to meet Nana there at one-thirty.  It's always good to be on time for Nana because she grumbles if she is made to wait for anybody.
Nana was also bringing the Queen's togs because they had been left at her house Christmas day when we thought it might be hot enough for swimming.
"Can I text Nana and remind her about my togs?" said the Queen, eager for a chance to use her new cellphone.
"Already have," said Mum.
"Oh..." said the Queen. "...ok.  Thanks".
And so we drove, not hurrying but I had my eye on the clock.  We pulled up in the carpark at Brighton Beach at one-fortyseven. I made sure to park right up near the surf club, right beside the path to the beach so that Nana wouldn't have to wait for us any longer than was absolutely necessary.  As I pulled on the handbrake Mum's phone buzzed in her purse.
"Mum says - running late - just having lunch now so maybe three quarters hour - no schedule today" she read out.
"That's not fair!" cried the Queen "Now He'll be able to swim and I won't be."
I looked over at The Slug*, who had wrapped himself in two towels and was trying to manoeuvre his way into his togs without letting anyone see anything.
"It'll be ok.  Nana won't be that long.  You can still paddle and we'll be here a while." One of us said.

So we trudged down the path to the beach, our feet sinking in the dry sand which made for hard going.  I wished I'd remembered a book, and started to wonder if I should have worn shorts.  The tide was low and the rocks, usually a long way out, seemed scarily close. Still, there were people in the water.  The Slug dropped his towel and ran down to the water.  The Queen stood and looked at her mother and me, her hands on her hips.
"Nana won't be long."  we said.  "Go see what the water's like."
The Slug was already running back as the Queen headed down to meet the surf.
"Too coooold!" he said, and proceeded to curl himself up in a ball on the sand and cover himself completely with a towel - to avoid sunburn.  He would stay that way for most of the visit - until we lured him out with the promise of ice-cream.

After a while of lying on the sand enjoying the warmth of the sun, The Slug comfortably wrapped up in his towel, The Queen busy dancing the waves, as deep as she could possibly be without getting the short shorts she got for Christmas wet, I decided to explore the rocks.
The rocks at Dunedin's Brighton Beach look like the rotten, worm eaten remains of some vast, ancient tree. But they are hard, brittle, and nearly as sharp as glass. My feet, thanks to my North island habit of wandering around barefoot, have soles like leather. So, with my jeans rolled up I wandered down and along the water, took a small leap over a puddle of swirling water and began gingerly making my way around the base of the rock hill on the right hand side of the beach, gripping the hole-ridden surface with my toes. I reached a point where I had a choice of path.  I could follow the low ledge further around the base of the hill or start an easy climb upwards toward the top. The ledge sat roughly level with the incoming water.  If I went that way the waves washing across its surface would pull at my feet and send the thick kelp that lay across it swirling menacingly. 

"Hi Tim." 
I looked, and saw the Queen had materialised at my heel.
"Where are you going"
"Just having a wee explore." I said.  Now I had company I decided on the safer path. "Shall we climb to the top?"
"No." said the Queen, and began making her way around the ledge, the waves washing her feet.
I began making my way up the other path.  I watched the Queen hoping she would see me, and that her own trepidation might make her choose to come join me. When we were just far enough apart that I knew I couldn't do anything to save her if anything happened, I did a silly thing.
I have said that the Queen is genetically almost incapable of following a suggestion. So what I said was sort of calculated, and probably true.  I wanted her to decide herself to walk back my way and join me on the easy climb to the summit.

"The tide's coming in." I calmly said.  "A big wave might sweep you off of there."
She appeared to be ignoring me, then the next moment she turned to the worm-eaten rock wall and began climbing the near vertical face before her.  If she made the full ten feet she would come off on the path ahead of me.  The rough, craggy surface gave her plenty of hand-holds.

I stayed calm.  When I met the Queen and her brother, nearly eight years ago now, they were four and five years old.  They were climbers even then.  At that time they would start in the corner of the kitchen, pulling out the drawers to make a staircase and climb on to the bench.  Then they would walk the length of the bench jumping the kitchen sink and tip-toeing across the stove top, which usually wasn't going, to the windowsill.  Hanging on to the net curtains for support they would make their way along the sill 'til they could reach and open the pantry door.  Then they would scale the pantry shelves and then hook themselves onto the ledge above and crawl along to the end where they would lie grinning at you, eight feet up.  As long as nobody closed the pantry door they could reverse the process and climb down again quite safely.
I quickly learned the trick was to remain calm.  If, at any stage in the process, you were to panic, reach out and cry "Oh My goodness what are you doing?", they would look you in the eye, let go of everything, and fall.  The resultant impact would entail far worse drama than a bit of dust on the knees of their trousers and the inconvenience of the drawers being open.

So today I stayed still and watched the Queen climb. Five feet... Six feet... Seven...

Finally she was near the top.  She reached her hand for the last hand-hold and I began breathing again.  Then, the thin rock broke off in her hand and I closed my eyes on the image of her lurching backward, arms flailing.  I imagined a cracked skull... bright blood swirling in the surf.

Then I heard the beginnings of a thin gentle wailing.  I opened my eyes to see her scrabbling to the safety of the ledge and immediately began making my way towards her saying "Wow! That was a good save.  I thought you were going to die..."
She had given her shin a nasty scrape, blood winked brightly out of a couple of shallow puncture wounds.
"The rock broke off in my hand"  she sobbed.
"I saw." I said. "But gosh you did well. Those rocks are sharp. You must be glad you didn't fall."
I told her the best thing for her graze would be the salt water.  She assured me it would sting.  I helped her back to our base and we showed the injury to Mum.
"You know the best thing for that would be the salt water." said Mum after a consoling hug.
"I can't! It'll sting too bad..." Wailed the queen.  She sat on the sand, hugging her knees, determined not to enjoy the beach any more.  The Slug peeked out from under his towel, checked his forearm for sunburn.
Mum and I looked at each other.  We suggested ice-cream.

After a bit of coaxing we made it to the shop.  The Queen and her brother ran to the tip-top fridge, seeking out the most expensive items.
"Can we...?" they began.
I nodded, sighing, and turned to order a frosty-boy. I always get soft serve at the beach.  The Queen and the slug deposited their mega-magnum-supernut-trumpets on the bench  and then watched as the lady extruded my much cheaper, $2.50 soft-serve.
"Can we get one of those instead?" they both begged.
I sighed, nodding, and they ran back to return their mega-magnum-supernut-trumpets.
"Make that three" I signalled the lady.

After that the beach visit returned to normal.   Nana arrived with the togs, and within twenty minutes the Queen was chest deep in the surf, dancing at the outer edge of the swimmers. The Slug was once again safely curled up under his towel, still happy, but complaining his shoulders had burned in the ten minute walk to the shop.  Eventually, when the Queen was cold enough, and the Slug bored enough,  we trudged our way back to the carpark.

So sated with ice-cream
surf swimming, and foam,
We climbed in the car
and we made our way home.
                                           
The Queen of Night is busy making her own incense sticks on the floor of her bedroom.  It's eleven o'clock and she should be trying to get to sleep.  She's happy, even though she's forgotten two things. Firstly, she really should have spread some newspaper on the carpet, and second, she nearly died today.




*"The Slug" is the Queen's brother. We might meet him in more detail if these bulletins continue.  It's possibly an unfair name considering he can do a back flip from standing (which I can't), and once hit a six for the school cricket team (which I never did).

The end of the week before Christmas

Gosh it's been a year. 

As each year draws to a close I find myself going faster and faster, working longer hours (when they're there to be worked), and - as Mr Einstein said would happen when we approach the speed of light - noticing everything around me melt into a blur.

This used to stress me a lot.  But this year I've finally come to realise that, what ever the race is for, it suddenly comes to an abrupt halt on Christmas Day, when the only work to do is Dishes. I know I've said it myself on a few occasions in the past, but this year when anyone said "Oh I'm so over Christmas!" to me, I found myself trying to jolly them out of it, or distract them onto a  more positive thought. 

There's just nothing like that release of tension when Christmas Day hits.  For me it's the beginning of a week when you realise that no matter how well or how badly the year has gone, there's no changing it. You've done all you can, and, thanks to the fact that we're  here in the southern hemisphere, the time has come to take a moment to sit in the sun and take a breath.  Even the thought of working the days between the holidays seems easier to me when I look at it from the near side of Christmas Lunch.

Don't get me wrong, it's been a really messy year. Things haven't gone well.  It's been emotional at times (just everyday stuff, but lots of it). And it's ending on a cliffhanger.  I don't know how next year will go.  It could be really bad too.

But at the same time I've made acquaintances in a couple of different places which could lead on to wonderful things.  I've learned a bit about people, and I've had ideas I want to follow through on.

So what's on the next page?

I'll have a look after lunch...

Merry Christmas,
the Gedle

P.S.  If I manage a poem this Sunday I'll try to make it a bit more jolly

Another Sunday,

I'm extemporizing here, because I have nothing on hand ready. This is an idea that has kept coming back at me on and off for about seven years now, this will probably not be the last time I attack it.

Here goes then...

Fish

Would you take to the water with a wizened old man
rowing in a leaky scow
To the spot where beacon's in line with the cleft
of the hill you can see from the prow?

Would you wrinkle your nose at the sweet rotten smell
of the blood-slimy bait that he cuts,
And prick your fingers as they slip on the hook
as you try to make the bait stay put?

Would you swallow as the waves of a passing barge
lift your stomach to your throat as they rock
while you wait with your finger on a just tight line
for the kahawai to strike with a shock?

Will you thrill to the nibble on the just tight cord;
to the snapper's tugging morse code bites?
Will you smooth down his spines as you grab him from the line
and grip him as he wriggles and he fights?

Do you have it within you to take his life
with a blow from a rowlock or a truncheon
and carry him home in a sea-wet sack
to set him on the table for your luncheon?

Or,

Do you just find it much more expedient
to look on the supermarket rack;
much cleaner, and nice and convenient
to buy your fish crumbed in a pack?


If you need a clue it was inspired by (but the thought is not exclusive to) the difference between mainstream commercial recorded, and live local music

Happy Christmas
The Gedle

What is a Gedle?

It's probably time I explained the title of this Blog.  At least a little bit.

"The Gedle" is a character in an unwritten children's book... My unwritten children's book. Considering his part in the tale he's probably not the most appropriate character to name as the voice behind a a rambling, tangential, sometimes bitter and occasionally esoteric internet diary. But, the good users of gmail had taken both of the two names I would have used already...

Of the two, the title character (who mercifully plays a very small part in the story) is definitely bitter, frustrated, overworked and misunderstood, and given the chance would moan on till long after those legendary wandering cows were inside, milked, fed, and fast asleep; the other possibility, a jolly, "all knowing" lay expert on popular-everything would probably still be droning on after said cows had woken up and gone out again if he had the leisure not to attend to more pressing matters (most of these the fault of the first character).

... and I like the Gedle. He's loyal, and unexpectedly helpful, and, seeing he doesn't "sez" much, there's perhaps no reason to suppose that underneath it all he's not jolly,bitter or esoteric. 

He certainly has a taste for flies.

Sunday Poem.

I think I might have half-pie promised a poem every Sunday on here.  We'll see how long that lasts.  At any rate due to the current activity of time-leeches in my area I have nothing entirely new to offer today.  So, in lieu of something wholly new, I here present my entire literary output from 2009. It's about the closest I get to a definitive political statement.

Those from Dunedin may recognise our stadium as the theme and have a small chuckle.

Those familiar with the work of the Coleridge will either be amused or mortified.

So, without further ado...

A Vision in a Dream (with apologies to S.T. Coleridge)

In Awatea did Chairman Mal
A sunny rugby-dome decree :
Where Leith, th’ancestral water, fell
Through campus, fair, but cold as hell

Down to the southern sea.

Two score square rods of grassy ground
With concrete stands were girdled round :
there was a roof, a  sparkling Perspex cover,
And there was many a sponsor’s banner there.

A thousand thousand cobbles scattered over,
In shades of grey with which grey can’t compare.

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which lay
twixt concrete hills beneath the perspex cover!
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath the winter sun was haunted
By stalwart wailing for his terrace uncovered!
Down in this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
Two mighty teams each other now adversing :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted passing
Huge forwards collide like thick rebounding hail,
while dainty wingers chase each other’s tails :
A pilgrimage from out the scarfies quarter
comes, following drunkenly th’ancestral water.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Past Cook and Gardies (painted blue as well),
They reach the campus, fair, but cold as hell,
then down with  tumult t‘ward the southern ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Malcolm hears them all
In mighty chorus, OTAAAAAGOOO’s call!

The roof across the dome was measured
The crowd was pack’d tight in its pouch ;
And Malcolm thought with tingling pleasure
No way in hell they’ll burn a couch!

It is a Miracle of rare device,

A rugby-dome with roof. How nice!

A long forgotten highlander

In a vision once I saw:

            He was a dunedinite of old

            And in my dream he proudly told

            Stories of Carisbrook

Could I revive within me

His proud nostalgic song,

Then in a moment I’d forget me,

Malcolm’s speeches loud and long,

Wherewith he builds that dome in air,

The rugby dome! how nice! come look!

And all who hear would stop and stare

And all should cry, Who Cares! Who cares!

This pompous man gives himself airs!

We’ve got the damn thing, let’s go look,

But to the chairman bar the gates ,

We know he hates the taste of speights,

And never loved our Carisbrook

Mortification

Well anyway, it was nearly eight thirty and time to pick up the Queen of Night from her gym end-of-year thingy. So I lit a smoke, left it by the front door, and in my usual way turned the house upside down looking for my car keys - which were in my pocket.
By the time I got there I was a little bit late and there was the Queen of Night standing in the carpark with a couple of concerned looking adults.  Well, I thought, we still haven't paid the gym fees and they're probably the organisers.  So I got out of the car and sauntered over to thank them for the bill and reassure them that the money would be in next week. As I sauntered over the young queen came tip-toeing toward me in her bare feet, hands over her mouth in an expression of cultivated shame while the two adults looked on.  The woman in particular looked fairly unimpressed.
"Tim..." said the Queen. "I kind of threw the key on the roof and we can't get it down."
"Eh?.." I said, reasonably incredulous.  Incredulity is an expression I often employ in my dealings with the Queen of Night even though I should know by now that nothing should surprise me. I had a vision as she explained what she had been doing with the key. Obviously the organiser had entrusted her with the key, she said she had been throwing it up and down and then one throw had ended up going the wrong way, sending the key onto the roof.  Obviously these poor people were now unable to lock up the venue and leave, and were standing around wondering what to do.

I had a small ladder in the car.   I didn't think it would be tall enough.  We were only two blocks away from my work. There was a bigger ladder there, I knew.  I wasn't quite ready to apologise for my stepdaughter's actions, or maybe I wasn't getting the vibe from the people that an apology was necessary. The woman looked unimpressed certainly, but the man seemed quite philosophical about it and not in any hurry.
"A ladder'd be the thing." He said cheerily.
"There's a big one at my work," I said "it's just around the corner." I waited for him to tell me that would be helpful, and could I go get it.
He looked off into the distance. "That feller who was just down there would've had one too." he said, almost to himself. "Would've been handy."

In the absence of any instruction I went back to the car to fetch my three-stepper out of the boot. It looked like you might almost reach from the top step.
"You won't reach from that." said the Queen.
"It's probably a job for a small person on somebody's shoulders on the top step." said the man helpfully.
That didn't sound very safe to me.  I placed the ladder and climbed up... nowhere near tall enough. I considered the option of showing displeasure - telling the Queen off.  She was skipping from side to side wondering if she was going to get a shoulder-ride. The two adults still appeared largely unconcerned, as if the delay was neither here nor there. I decided to leave displeasure for now and stick with helpful. After all we were holding them up.

"My work is literally two blocks away." I said to the cheery fellow. "I can get you a big extension ladder. It won't fit in the car though; I'll have to run round and carry it back." I waited for him to offer to help me.
"We'll wait." he said, smiling. 
I set off running.  I ran until I got out of sight and then walked.  I am a smoker after all and half a block is plenty, but I felt I should give the impression of enthusiasm.  I still had a heavy ladder to carry back.
By the time I got to the workshop I'd had a better idea. The van was there.  I grabbed a ladder and put it in the back, pressed the button and waited for the roller door to grind its way up, backed the van out and pressed the button again to let the door slowly close again.  Easy.

"Sorry about this," I said as I unfolded the ladder.
"Me go up!" said the Queen, pretending to be half her age again.
"No you won't." said the man.
"So you're the gym organisers?" I asked as I climbed the ladder.  I was still thinking to introduce myself and reassure them about the bill.
"No no." he said. "We just thought we'd better wait to you arrived."

"What does this key look like?" I said once I was on the roof "No, don't worry, there it is."
About a metre onto the flat roof I saw a red key-ring. as I got near I saw the oddest key.  It was small, chunky and made of plastic.  It looked like it had been coloured red with permanent marker. It looked more like the sort of toy key the Queen was fond of collecting.
"It's Mummy's key-ring." She said."

I looked at the man
"I thought it was the key to the gym." I said.
"I thought it was your house key." he replied.
"Oh." I said, handing the key to the Queen.  "Well thanks for waiting with her."

And later in the car I said.
"So how was gym?"

I will have more to say

I just don't seem to be able to find the time at the moment.  It's not only the time.  Just like I find with my nemesis in the corner of the room, some days I sit down and the music will not be held down.  No matter how hard I try to grab it it eludes my fingers and instead they crash dully against the keys. At other times, when I least expect it, my fingers for some reason feel safe as they cling to the keys and my hand dances with the music, never touching it but moving in perfect time like an ancient dance where the dancers move together, close but neither touching nor drifting apart.  The steps of that dance are at the same time precise but variable, with cliche lying in wait for those who stumble to the left and chaos waiting to the right.

Freaky mystic madman you say.

I find the same with writing. I now have three unfinished posts for this blog which seemed inspired at the time and may yet prove to be.  I am forming the idea of chucking up a poem every Sunday and some music during the week but less frequently. 

One of my fellow bloggers has mentioned a reading challenge  for next year.  If I was to take on such a thing it would be to finish all the books in the shelf I have started but not quite reached the end.  There is a pile of open books at the end of the shelf, some with very little left of them to read. Off the top of my head they include:

Jude the Obscure, by Thomas Hardy - couldn't finish it.. too close to home
The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie - shaping up to be very funny
The Confessions of St Augustine
Language, Truth and Logic by A J Ayer
Wind, Sand and Stars by Antoine de Saint-Exupery - already read it but he's great
The Summer Book by Tove Jannsen - ditto the above
Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky

There's a Jeffrey Archer there too, equally important I would say

Looking forward to having time,
The Gedle

Brain dead... more sport.

Aaaah.. children.

The Queen of Night desired she should be fed.
An apple sat, not far, within her sight,
But when she called the servants were in bed.

"I see an apple near!", she loudly pled.
"Will you come fetch that I might take a bite?
The Queen of Night desires she should be fed!"

The house was still, no sound of step or tread
and no-one came to ease her dreadful plight
For when she called, the servants were in bed.

"Did no-one hear a single word I said?!!
Come feed me now, and then turn off my light!
The Queen of Night desires she should be fed!"

"I'd also like a slice or two of bread!
And crackers.  Four should be alright!"
But when she called, the servants were in bed.

"I s'pose you'll all be happy when I'm dead.
Don't worry then, I won't last through the night."
The Queen of Night desired she should be fed,
But when she called, the servants were in bed.

TFR 12/10

Sunday

He said: For sport I'll write a villanelle,
With verses five and quatrain at the end
And it, with style and wit, shall rhyme as well.

One Sunday morning, caught in boredom's spell
and looking, sad, at other lines he'd penned
He said: For sport I'll write a villanelle.

A story, neatly bound in form, I'll tell
And to that form, the meaning will I bend
And it, with style and wit, shall rhyme as well.

Two lines refraining, tolling, as a bell
will call my reader always to attend
He said. For sport, I'll write a villanelle.

It shall be tragic, magic, fay and fell
And through, a wistful wantonness shall wend
And it, with style and wit, shall rhyme as well.

Without a muse, the poem's just a shell,
But form still serves the poet in the end.
He said: For sport I'll write a villanelle,
And it, with style and wit, shall rhyme as well.

Tim Robinson  27/11/2010

Wednesday night, piano night.

This week at least...

Seeing everyone else at home had their things to do, and I can get to the grand piano in the church down the road on evenings when there's a club meeting in the adjacent hall... I sloped off after dinner to spend an hour at a decent keyboard.

I always feel a bit naughty playing from Pictures at an Exhibition in a church (Don't get too excited, I play it all veeery slow). In particular Gnomus and The Hut on Chicken's Legs seem a bit too devilish for the space, so I stumbled through the first Promenade and then stuck to Beethoven and Chopin, cleaning my hands with little bits of Bach in between.

Chopin I tend to read through over and again in the hope that my fingers will one day just do it without my having to put in any effort. Beethoven is great when you just want to revel in the range of sound you can make. but Bach I could pick a piece and play the same one over and over and over again.

Actually that's pretty much what I did... I'm now really good at the Cmajor prelude from book two of the 48 preludes and fugues. I've been playing it over and over again for about 10 years now... My wife hates it. But... I'm ashamed to admit I only got really good at it in the last few months when I finally decided to pull it apart, play it separate hands, work out the phrasing, and generally try to play "that melody" over "that bass" instead of "all those notes". Having only now discovered what this does (I wish I'd been humble enough to take the time ten years ago) I was suddenly able to make sense of the fugue that follows it and also to do less damage to the Cminor prelude and fugue. Now I'm working on the Dmajor prelude.

This is Sviatoslav Richter playing The Cmajor prelude and fugue.




In the prelude you have two play two instrumental lines with each hand. If you just play "all those notes", especially with the in the right hand, you miss the opportunity to bring out a wonderful interchange between the top two lines. Richter does a nice job of this. If you browse through youtube for BWV870 and compare him to the likes of Ashkenazy and Glenn Gould you'll see what I consider to be the wrong way to play this piece. Instead of bringing out the conversation between the parts which makes me love this piece, they seem to hash them all together and make the right hand sound like one very complicated but rather boring melody.

Now, I like my version even better than Richter's. Why shouldn't I? It makes perfect sense that I should be more likely to play a piece of music in the way I like best than anybody else... even if they are famous.

What I would like to do over the next year or so is to get hold of a suitable video camera and start making my own recordings and sharing them on here.

To the people who stole out of my car on the weekend

Even though you probably will never read this... Please give my stuff back.

There was a bag of hand tools, a hitachi sander my mum bought for me, a fly reel and a little aluminium case of hand tied trout flies, and a new pair of workboots. All up there was probably less than a grand worth to replace but I don't have a grand and my contents insurance doesn't cover anything used at any time to earn an income.

The tools and the boots I'll probably be able to replace bit by bit over time.  But I have a close relationship with my stuff, many of the items were gifts and nearly every item has an association of memory attached to it.

What really made me sad was the fishing tackle.  I don't fish by the way.  The trout reel belonged to my Dad.  He died in 1998 or there abouts.  It was his favourite reel, I think, I don't know how much he used it.  I think he'd had it when he was a boy in the 1930's and 40's when his father taught him to keep his arm still and cast only with his wrist by getting him to grip the family bible between his elbow and his waist.  The family Bible was huge, and letting it touch the ground was a whipping offence.

The reel itself showed years of use.  It had a notch worn in where the line had rubbed from years of winding, and that notch was worn into new metal brazed on to repair an earlier groove.  Maybe it was so old as to be no use for fishing anymore and maybe that was the reason my brother pressed it into my hand on the day of the funeral saying I should have something of Dad's. (I got that, the flies and his swandri hat - which my wife won't let me wear.  You didn't take the hat.)  It was a name brand of reel.  It might have been a Hardy's, I can't remember.  It might be worth something as a collectible.  Maybe you'll get a hundred bucks for it.

The flies probably aren't worth much.  You might get fifty bucks for them. Dad tied them himself from feathers the neighbours peacock dropped and from bits off our various pet chooks that he kept in a little drawer in the desk along with other bits like possum fur, copper wire, thread and glue.  He'd sit late at night under the green painted desk lamp with his glasses pushed down to the tip of his nose, bent over the fly-tying vice that I always thought was so cool. He was meticulous in all his movements whether he was tying a fly, repairing a cane rod or rebinding the handle of a cricket bat.  Each individual twist of feather or thread was so practised it seemed staged.  Even if he didn't know you were watching it was like a performance.  Maybe he knew I was watching, showing me how it was done as I stood in the doorway behind him in my pyjamas. Or maybe he was still doing it just right for his own father - keeping the bible off the ground.

Anyway... that's what you took from me... I know I know I should have made sure the kids had locked their door... and I should have checked my insurance ages ago too.

All that's left is for me to have this little whinge... and move on.

The Gedle

I know, I know... That was a terrible poem

But that's precisely the reason I like it. For me it's terrible for all the right reasons and none of the wrong ones. And, as I said, I wanted my first ever blog post to be something I could always improve on.  The blame for that poem,  if blame must be laid, lies firmly with whoever put a bunch of Spike Milligan books on the bookshelves when I was a child.

I don't understand poetry at all by the way.  I've written a few arrangements of words on the page and called them poems since that first one.  Back in  2000ish I even sat an undergraduate course in Poetry writing, for which I scored a final mark of  "A+".  That didn't mean any of it was publishable of course, and looking back on those poems now I tend to agree with the people who told me so at the time.  That doesn't mean that I won't at times publish the odd few verses here if and when the mood takes me.

If you did ask me what I thought poetry was, however, I would say that any poem is a sort of mnemonic.  Like Roy G. Biv reminds us the order of the colours of the rainbow; like "first class goods do an excellent business" tells us in which order to place sharps in a key signature, a poem acts like a mnemonic aid to clearly call to mind an event, an image, a feeling, or a state of mind. 

Of course this function of poetry which I (have decided to) call mnemonic is more subtle and complex than the simple memory aids we remember from science and music classes.  The triggers for memory or understanding in poetry come from the combination of sounds in the chosen words, the particular images evoked by metaphor and sometimes the coherence or lack of coherence of the language used.  As with mnemonics as we understand them, without any key to understanding a poem may be meaningless to anybody except its author.

This reminds me. My poem needs a better title. Does anybody have a suggestion?

There. Having disavowed any understanding of poetry I have gone on to attempt to explain it.  I'm afraid this is what you will come to expect of me. 

All the best
The Gedle

Hello World!

In order to begin any journey, one must first establish a point, however lowly from which to begin.  With this in mind I here publish my first serious poem, written around 1998.  While I am no longer in possession of the original manuscript of this poem, the words are emblazoned firmly on my conciousness and still speak to me on some deep level even now.  They capture the circumstances surrounding their creation succinctly, and, while twelve years is a long time in the modern world I think this poem still has very much something to say.

Thattered Scoughts

The rain pelts, heavily upon my architrave
I wish it would not so...
I scream! but still the giddy knave
Bombards my woodwork etc.

Shun ye the hellhound's rainy ranks
That endlessly pour forth.
They rain on cars they rain on banks
And also noisome Geriatrica

Yea Geriatrica I say to thee
They live upon the hill...
...and piercingly glare down on me
Whilst I prepare my famous curries

That issue forth with fiery glee
E'en after they be consum-ed
A ring of flame that's hard to see
by all but those famed contortionists

Who with the fabled toasting chant*
To the rain to cool the scorch,
And skyward Cyclops' faces slant,
More soothed than if they'd used Optrex.

I think there is a message in there for all of us, don't you?

* "bottoms up"